


If It All Goes to Hell, Head North

by ProtonBeam



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A tale of two people finding each other in the most unlikely times, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, And plenty of flirting, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, But only a little, But there will also be cabin shenanigans, Chapter notes will expand on potential triggers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feral Rey, Finding Family, Finding her place in the new world, Grandpa Palps Left Instructions, Grim Outlook, HEA Guaranteed, Hopelessness as a starting mentality, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Morbid Ideations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Rey (Star Wars), Rebuilding Society, Reclusive Ben, Rey Follows Them To The Tee, Rey Needs A Hug, Rey is an ER Doctor, Romulus & Remus The Pups, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, The Walking Dead Vibes, There will be guns, There will be knives, Zombie Apocalypse Vibes, oh and banter, period-typical violence, survival angst, survivalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtonBeam/pseuds/ProtonBeam
Summary: How did the world go to hell so quickly? An unknown virus ravaged the human species seemingly overnight. Those who manage to survive the initial infection have become shells of their former selves. Zombies with one purpose - further infection.Rey's grandfather was a doomsday prepper with a plan to ride it all out. 'Head North' he'd said. Even had the bug-out car and supplies for the journey. It's how Rey finds herself and her pups on the way north to her intended destination. Alone and possibly the last living human in a crumbling landscape.What will she do when she finds a band of survivors on her way?ALTERNATELY: How Rey finds herself when everything's gone to straight hell.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 122
Kudos: 170





	1. PART I : LOST

**Author's Note:**

  * For [McDrogo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McDrogo/gifts).



**DIARY EXCERPT 1: Approx. Date August Y1  
**

_I don’t know if I can do this anymore.  
  
_ _It’s her fault. Her fault it happened. She’s the one who sent us out on that God forsaken mission. And for what?  
  
_ _A few knick knacks and old comforts that have no use for survival? Because she wanted to imbue a sense of normalcy? For a fucking baster and a gravy dish? For a pair of rings?  
  
_ _Nothing about the state of the world is normal anymore._ _ Nothing.  
  
_ _Why does she insist on pretending?  
  
_ _I can’t live with her anymore. Looking at her dredges up too many memories. I feel like I’ve let her down and I feel like I want to strangle her at the same time. There’s this sadness in her eyes.  
  
_ _She blames me. I can feel it. Even if she doesn’t say it, her eyes do. ‘You lost him’. Words she won’t speak but are clear as day when she looks at me.  
  
_ _And I know she’s right. Because even if the scouting mission was her idea, even if it was_ _her_ _writing on the list, it was_ _me_ _who let it happen. It was_ _me_ _whose reaction time was too slow to save him.  
  
_ _I can’t look at her anymore. I just can’t.  
  
_ _I’ve scouted out an island not too far away. It’s small enough to seclude myself on. The soil rich enough to hopefully plant a garden. Elevation high enough to weather anything the river throws. It’s within decent reach of other islands so I can keep this one in good condition while using others to forage and hunt. Another one not too far away has a good amount of matured trees. It’s perfect for collecting firewood.  
  
_ _There was a dilapidated cottage upriver with a metal dock. One of the new lightweight ones that are easily disassembled for the winter. I’ve already grabbed it and set it up on my island for easier access. I’ll probably go scavenge some of the furniture at a later date.  
  
_ _I’ve also started hauling logs for the cabin. One of the new arrivals used to be a carpenter and has offered help building. He seems to understand.  
  
_ _We’ve drafted up the plans. It’s nothing big but it’s enough for me. A perfectly measured cabin with a combined living space, two small rooms and a bathroom. Somewhere to sleep. Somewhere to tinker. Somewhere to bathe.  
  
_ _Somewhere to_ _be_ _away from her judgemental eyes.  
  
_ _If we can get the framing done in two weeks, we can hopefully finish insulating, cabling, and roofing it all before the winter. Then I can work on the interior in peace. It’ll be a good project. Something to sink my teeth into and maybe help me forget for a while.  
  
_ _I’ve already found a water pump for the shower, solar panels for the roof, and a wood burning stove to keep the cabin warm in winter. I’ve got bags of insulation and know just the house to strip for aluminum siding by a private dock. On my last trip downriver I saw a window company right off the shore. Maybe my new carpenter friend can help draft them into the plans. It might be nice to be able to look outside.  
  
_ _Tomorrow I’m going back to the window company to pick up a few frames I like. If I get lucky they’ll also have doors and I can kill two birds with one stone. There’s a hardware store so maybe I’ll swing by and haul a few necessities to the water’s edge to pick up another day. Maybe a small fridge or a stove. Maybe some tiles and grout. We always need nails and other building supplies so maybe I’ll turn it into a mission and drag a few others with me. She won’t say no to that.  
  
_ _I can already hear her wailing when I drop the news. Can already hear her words as she admonishes me for pulling away from the utopia she thinks she’s built. This world where she gets to pretend everything didn’t go to shit.  
  
_ _She’s been like this since I can remember. Ever the optimist in the face of adversity. Always digging in her heels and looking for a solution. Refusing to accept things at face value. Glossing over losses in favour of looking ahead. Like she’s playing a game of chess … only the pieces are human lives. How can she act so indifferent when a piece is felled? How can she pretend her king hasn’t been taken?  
  
_ _Like looking back is such a bad thing.  
  
_ _Like grief is wrong.  
  
_ _What she doesn’t seem to understand is me.  
  
_ _She doesn’t understand her own son.  
  
_ _It’s my fault. I know that. I’d pulled away from them long before all this happened. Went to school halfway across the country, moved to the city far away from them. Took a career I knew she hated despite how much she knew I loved the field. Only sheer circumstance brought us together just as everything went to shit and she’s choosing now, of all times, to start acting like a mother. To make up for lost time.  
  
_ _What I need is space. What I need is to be told that it’s okay to be sad, that life goes on.  
  
_ _Maybe it does.  
  
_ _It doesn’t feel like it.  
  
_ _It feels like everything is supposed to be just fine. Group bonfires and raiding missions. Communal building projects and farming cooperatives. Hunting parties and a supply shed where everyone gets a fair share of rations. Her office is filled with logs to keep track of everything we’ve built and accomplished. Like she’s the keeper. Like she’s the queen.  
  
_ _Like it fucking matters.  
  
_ _It doesn’t matter ma, you hear me?  
  
_ _It doesn’t fucking matter.  
  
_ _He’s gone.  
  
_ _It’s my fault.  
  
_ _No, it’s_ _your_ _fault.  
  
_ _Maybe it’s everyone’s fault, but I carry the brunt of it.  
  
_ _So what’s the point of sticking together? What’s the point of putting on the front of a happy family when we’re anything_ _but_ _now? What’s the point of pretending he’s still with us when he’s not?  
  
_ _She won’t like that I’m leaving. Won’t like that she can’t control me anymore. But I have to do this. I have to find my own peace.  
  
_ _Maybe she’ll appreciate the proximity. It’s not so far away she can’t visit. In fact, from just the right angle, you can see across the water to my chosen spot. It’s the best she’ll get because this_ _is_ _happening. With or without her permission.  
  
_ _I need to be alone for a while. Away from this pretend bubble.  
  
_ _Maybe, if I’m lucky, I won’t survive the winter.  
  
_ _Maybe, if I’m lucky, she’ll forget I’m there. Forget trying to get me to settle down. She does that every once in a while. When there’s an ‘available woman’ or she’s feeling extra nostalgic for the lost order of society. She tries to saddle us together on missions like she’s playing matchmaker.  
  
_ _I don’t understand how she doesn’t understand. She acts like we didn’t survive the apocalypse. She acts like we’re still in New York at one of her fancy galas, trying to set me up with some socialite or other in search for a ‘fruitful match’. Like grandchildren and legacy still matter.  
  
_ _What matters now is only waking up another day._ _Surviving_ _another day.  
  
_ _Maybe being alone is how I move past what happened?  
  
_ _Maybe being alone is exactly what I need?  
  
_ _Maybe, when I’m alone I can find peace in the hazel eyes I see in my dreams. They’re my only comfort.  
  
_ _I’m sure they belong to someone I’d met in passing. Someone I was meant to develop a connection with but my pride and my ego stood in my way. Consumed by my career and forging a name for myself. If only I’d paid better attention, maybe those eyes would have a face. Maybe that face would smile at me in my dreams.  
  
_ _Maybe that face would smile every morning at me. In another life.  
  
_ _Now those eyes are a memory. A constant reminder of what I could have had. A constant reminder that I am,_ _still_ _, human.  
  
_ _\- BS  
  
_ _PS: I’m sorry for rambling. I found one of his bottles of whiskey…_ _  
__PPS: I miss him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp ... this is happening. The story is mapped out and I have a _rough_ chapter count but I'm not willing to set it in stone just yet.
> 
> It's a story in 3 acts and we'll be delving into the realities of a world that just ... stopped. A world where the population was decimated in the blink of an eye. There'll be some morbid ideations and dark thought patterns. Assumptions and observations that fit the world they find themselves in. So each chapter will include a list of potentially sensitive subject matters at the beginning. Topics that will be the focus of passing ruminations.
> 
> I want this to be realistic. So even though Ben & Rey's relationship is at the core of this story, we're going to be exploring the survival mindset, survival trauma and realities of a post-apocalyptic world. As such, there will be no 'darkness' between them, but the world in which they live _is_ bleak, so mind the tags & landscape.
> 
> Buckle up! We're diving head first into a post-apocalypse world!
> 
>  **Please Note:** If you feel there's a tag I've missed, let me know and I'll make sure to add it or make adjustments.


	2. She Dreams of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You need to get out of the city. It’s starting.”_
> 
> _“What’s starting?”_
> 
> _It’s a lie. She knows exactly why he’s calling. News like this is the lifeblood of a doomsday prepper. He’s just been awoken and not even garlic and silver bullets would put this monster back to sleep._
> 
> _There was silence on the line and she’d begun thinking he’d nodded off._
> 
> _“The reckoning,” he says, voice quiet and gravelly, “always thought it would be a solar flare but ... virus it is.”_
> 
> _“It’s alright Sheev,” she’d soothed, unable to call him grandpa or any other familial name as it was still too new, would probably always be, “it’s nothing hospitals can’t handle. You know the news likes to sensationalize stories.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Sensitive subject matters & topics included in this chapter:_  
> \- Consumption of wildlife/wild game  
> \- Mentions of blood, infection & implied death  
> \- Mention of euthanasia  
> \- Semi-graphic description of zombie-like state  
> \- Shooting of infected bodies  
> \- Implied/suggested generalized animal death (specifically domesticated dogs)  
> \- General bleak outlook

  
Her fire crackles in the twilight. The magenta sky overhead slowly gives way to a galaxy of stars that’ll soon be visible out here. Too bad she won’t stick around to see it.   
  
An owl hoots in the distance and crickets chirp nearby. It’s her evening symphony.   
  
The log she’s dragged next to her makeshift fire pit is uncomfortable but she didn’t have the strength to pull the nicer one she’d found amid the forest canopy.  
  
She’s strong, but not strong enough to lug a 12 foot long felled tree. Nor did she have the ability to grapple with its 2 foot girth. So as soft and worn as it looked, as great of a perch as it would have made, she opted to haul a pathetic little chunk of birch instead. Bark still attached and all. It’s itchy against her bottom and unstable, but it’s a seat nonetheless. A step above sitting on the grass, but only by a little.   
  
On a more positive note, it had been dry enough for her to strip some bark to use as kindling, so she counts _that_ as a small blessing.  
  
At least the boys are comfortably gnashing on a squirrel a piece at her feet. Patient and attentive though distracted by their good fortune and fresh food for once. It had become harder to feed them as they progressed on their journey. Stores carrying specialty food had become more scarce and she’d long given up on sticking to a single brand for their digestive health. Keeping them alive was more important than whether or not they’d get a bout of diarrhea.  
  
Sometimes she wonders why she did it. Why she followed her grandfather’s advice.   
  
She’d barely known him. Had spent 28 years of her life living without family. Accepting her lot in life as an unwanted and battering down every barrier of her orphan past. When he’d finally reached out, when he’d finally found her, she’d already lived alone so long it was hard to accept she _had_ family. That she _had_ someone to fall back on. Someone who willingly paid off her student loans and flat out bought her apartment without asking anything in return. Only, reconciling her family lineage mere months before it all went to shits was the butt of that joke.  
  
Her grandfather was an old crook from what little she’d learned of him. A cold man whose life was spent amassing great wealth then stashing it in unknown places like a smattering of Aladdin’s caves throughout the east coast. A doomsday prepper of the 5th kind. A god among his community by all accounts. Then again, he’d spent a lot of time behind bars for corporate crimes so his view of the world would have been … tainted. Let's go with that.  
  
She turns the three spits impaled in the soft earth a smidge. The squirrels she’d caught and skinned roasting in the fire while she listened to the hollow noises of nature and the smacking of her companions’ lips. Tongues lapping and teeth tearing into their raw share of the spoils.  
  
At first she’d been averse to eating ‘wild game’ as her grandfather put it. But hardship is the mother of invention. So her tastebuds eventually reinvented themselves. Slowly losing their affinity for dollar store ramen noodles, chocolate bars, and (later) medium rare steaks, only to acclimate to wild berries and small game meat. She side eyes her charges who lounge happily with their treats on the ground. Each gingerly holding the carcass between folded paws for better leverage.  
  
Romulus is the bigger of the two. He’s also more alpha than she prefers. Not that she’d had much experience raising dogs before these two came into her life. Her grandfather had just shown up at her modest little apartment near the hospital one day with two rottweiler pups in tow. He claimed they were for her protection.  
  
The transaction was closer to a food delivery drop off than a family visit. All ‘thought you could use some protection’ and ‘thanks bye’, as he stalked off down the dimly lit hallway. Who the hell has 2 rottweilers in a small apartment building? And with _her_ schedule to boot! It drove home just how little their shared DNA offered in terms understanding of each other. Namely nothing.  
  
In fact, she’d sat on her lumpy couch for hours after, staring at the two sleeping black blobs and Googling what to do. Like a grade A dog mom, she fished out an old cardboard box out of the depths of her closet, grabbed a few used towels (because scent bonding, the internet said) and deposited them in there before rushing to the nearest pet store for supplies.  
  
Training pads, puppy chow, teething toys, leashes and collars, inquiries about training and vets. Mapping out every one of their milestones under the fluorescent lights of the nondescript pet store with a purple haired girl named Sally. She’d even picked up a copy of Cesar Millan’s ‘Be the Pack Leader’ and read it in full that first night, foregoing sleep to start pee pad training. That’s how she’d figured out Romulus was the alpha of his litter. Looking her straight in the eye while he purposely peed anywhere _but_ the pad.  
  
Remus, unlike his brother, was much more relaxed. A much easier charge albeit aloof in equal parts. While Romulus paid attention, became an excellent hunter and even better guard, Remus was best at tracking, having been gifted a bloodhound’s nose. And even then, only if his attention didn’t stray. He had enough stamina to put the energy bunny to shame. Enough energy that she’d gone through 3 dog walkers in the first 6 months of having them, every one citing his behaviour for cutting ties.  
  
Does Romulus challenge her for position occasionally? Absolutely. But she knows what’s best for him and always applies the rules she’d learned even if it means constantly keeping on her toes to reinforce _she’s_ the alpha. A task that doesn’t come natural to her. A task she’s learned to master through deep meditation and countless stare offs. She does it to keep him safe. To keep _them_ safe.   
  
Although in times like these you don’t need a human sized brain to survive. There’s no more navigating traffic or balancing a budget. No more grocery lists and weekend getaways. Only the cold hard reality of survival, and that comes instinctively to animals. Maybe she should let him lead for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break from being constantly on edge.  
  
Ironically — though establishing herself as alpha over Romulus’ innate need to lead had been the trial of her lifetime (and she’d single handedly put herself through Med school for God’s sake) — Remus was (and is) still the bane of her existence. Always running off and half listening to commands. His impromptu frolicking being the cause of many, _many,_ mini heart attacks. She’s certain that they’ll outlive her based on that simple fact. Thank goodness for his brother who routinely keeps him in check.  
  
Like now, snapping at him for trying to steal a sliver of squirrel that had strayed from between his massive paws. Or maybe Remus is trying to pull the furry tail to steal his dinner altogether. Either way, he’s been caught and put in his place.  
  
She smiles down at them, enjoying their company and the simplicity of the moment.  
  
A twig snaps in the distance and both their massive heads shoot up in the direction of the sound. Her hand instinctively reaches for the shotgun she’d leaned against her shitty perch. Their little pack stilling all movement.   
  
Whatever crepuscular creature it was, held no interest or malicious intent because the boys resumed their gnashing only moments later. Content the air they’d diligently sniffed held no danger.  
  
 _Could have been a deer_ , she thinks, mouth watering but muscles aching at the thought of hunting then preparing a deer carcass with the likes of Remus around. At least Romulus sat tight knowing he’d eventually get his dues last time. Remus was … is … an impatient little shit. And also the world’s greatest cuddler.   
  
She sighs, relenting that she does, in fact, tend to bitch the most about her favourite. Even if it’s only to herself these days. Romulus is her second in command. Remus is her baby. _It just is what it is_.   
  
She turns the spits again taking another look at the landscape around her. The dense vegetation. The boreal forest of dense pines and poplar, spruce and birch. The shapes of which begin to morph into silhouettes as the sun continues its setting path. It would have been a beautiful camping experience in the before.   
  
There’s something comforting about having a forest at your back. Something about a wall of darkness and unbending wood that promises anonymity and security. It’s a strange thought considering the dark can house all kinds of creatures, but most danger she’s encountered had come head on. Had taken the shape of people that walked or crawled down decrepit sidewalks and potholed streets.   
  
Opening the map book she’d gleaned from the last abandoned gas station, she turns her attention to her journey ahead. She’s in Northern New York right now. Based on the last clusterfuck of abandoned cars she’d passed (and the signage) she’s guessing to be just north of Syracuse.   
  
She’s made good time. Made a good dent in the distance her grandfather had mapped out for her. A decent endeavour in the last year and a half. Sure, she could have pushed on and made it to her destination 10 months ago, but that would have been reckless and it had been a dangerous time. Add to that impending winter and she’d spent almost 5 months cooped up in a small cabin by a creek at the NY/Penn state line.   
  
A lucky find tucked into the mountain side and built by someone who liked both reclusivity and hard work. The cabin was completely off the grid — a fortunate aspect considering electricity had stopped running months prior — and stood about a mile from a creek that was wide enough to not freeze over in the winter.   
  
It was a good place to grow roots in.  
  
It had only taken her 3 months to get there after the last time she saw her grandfather. 8 months after that fated phone call. After what she’d witnessed, it had taken her an entire season to dislodge herself and follow the instructions she’d been given.  
  
Afterall, it wasn’t where she was told to go.

  
  


↩️

  
  


It had started like any other day. She fed the boys, secured their twice daily outings with their walker (an expense she didn’t want to incur but she had the means now). She’d gone for a run with them, had her breakfast smoothie and made her espresso to go. Throwing on easy-on easy-off jeans and a sweater, she trudged through the early spring air of DC to the hospital for her shift.  
  
Dr. Rey Niima (no, Palpatine now), ER doctor and resident at GW hospital. Ready to patch up booboos, extract splinters, dole get-out-of-jail free cards to high school students faking a tummy ache, and prescribe needless antibiotics to seasonal rhinitis sufferers because they’re convinced it’s an infection (thank you Dr. Google for making her job harder). She chuckled to herself walking through the staff entrance and straight for the lockers to change into scrubs. Of course, there were the _actual_ emergency room visits that put her skills to the test, but for those she’d go on autopilot. It was the wasted time on unnecessary visits she both dreaded and laughed about that morning.  
  
That must have been the last time things felt easy. The last time she’d laughed and felt truly carefree.  
  
That was also the first time she’d noticed signs of _it_. Scurrying nurses and blood soaked scrubs in the hamper of the lounge. One of her fellow physicians hunched over on the sofa, head hanging heavily. He looked utterly spent. The dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sallow like he hadn’t eaten.  
  
“Morning Niim- aah, Palpatine. Morning.”  
  
“Morning Andor. Bad night?”  
  
“You … could say that?”  
  
“Everything alright?”  
  
“I-I don’t know. Think I’m just exhausted. There seems to be a bug going around and it hit overnight. Doesn’t fit _anything_ I’ve ever encountered,” he sighed looking down at his shaking hands while she finished changing.   
  
“You’re off shift now, right? It’s someone else’s problem now,” she threw casually. _My problem,_ she thinks, _it’s my problem now_.   
  
Exhaustion was normal in the ER. Especially if the shift happened to experience a surge. Flu season was a big one (because why would you go to your family doctor when you can clog up the ER?). Accidents. Summers were notorious for drownings and fires, mostly thanks to casual backyard barbecues and pool parties. Both featuring copious amounts of alcohol and intoxicated bravado.  
  
“Yeah. I’m ... gonna go home. Get some sleep. You uh, be careful out there, yeah? And take a look at my charts, would you? Could use a fresh set of eyes on those symptoms.”  
  
The symptoms were strange, she thought later, now equally as exhausted as Cassian had been when she’d arrived only hours prior. Patients who came in with _those_ symptoms deteriorated quickly. Sores opened that wouldn’t close. Body fluids expelled from their panting mouths at breakneck speeds. Stabilizing them was a chore. Whenever she thought she’d found rest for one, another’s monitors would wail for her attention. When she’d figure that one out the first would go into remission. It was like playing volleyball with yourself. Except the stakes were much higher. A human life hung in the balance. She didn’t eat lunch. She barely sat.  
  
That night she got home from the longest 12 hour shift in history. Exhausted, red rimmed eyes and thoroughly scrubbed. The sheer volume of saliva, phlegm, blood and excretions — the smell of which still cling to her nostrils long after she’d washed it all off — never touched her but she felt them penetrate through her scrubs. Like an invisible hand, sinister and foreboding reaching out and clutching for her. It had claws. She knew, but wouldn’t make any assumptions until the lab confirmed what they were fighting against.  
  
Sitting in her living room with the boys at her feet and a glass of merlot in her hand, the news began reporting the first wave of this new mystery illness.   
  
High mortality rates. High contagion. Unknown virus. Catastrophizing as usual. She couldn’t help the eyeroll she let loose. They didn’t get it wrong, per se, but they were certainly blowing it out of proportion. No medical professionals or officers had made any reports with finality. They were reporting hearsay at best.  
  
Then she’d gotten a phone call from her grandfather just as she’d well and truly tuned out the droning of the reporters. An armchair quarterback panel discussing the ramifications of this quote ‘unknown disease’ (again, with no medical professional present).  
  
“You need to get out of the city. It’s starting.”  
  
“What’s starting?”   
  
It’s a lie. She knows exactly why he’s calling. News like this is the lifeblood of a doomsday prepper. He’s just been awoken and not even garlic and silver bullets would put this monster back to sleep.  
  
There was silence on the line and she’d begun thinking he’d nodded off.  
  
“The reckoning,” he says, voice quiet and gravelly, “always thought it would be a solar flare but ... virus it is.”  
  
“It’s alright Sheev,” she’d soothed, unable to call him grandpa or any other familial name as it was still too new, would probably always be, “it’s nothing hospitals can’t handle. You know the news likes to sensationalize stories.”  
  
Did she believe it though? After what she’d witnessed? Did he _maybe_ have a point?  
  
“They also gloss over details if it could cause civil unrest,” he rebuts smoothly, a wet cough ringing loudly across the line.  
  
“I’ve seen a few cases at the hospital, they’re not so bad.” Another lie.  
  
“Rey, please wear protection. It’s everywhere. Europe, Asia, the Middle East. Africa hasn’t released any data but I bet it’s there too.”  
  
That was news.  
  
“I’ve been keeping an eye on reports and newscasts from around the globe. It’s starting. It’s _really_ starting. You _need_ to leave the city, Rey,” he emphasized. The graveness in his voice amplified immeasurably. It held both warning and fear in equal parts.   
  
“You know I can’t Sheev,” she pushed back though the blood in her veins felt ice cold, “I took the hippocratic oath. I _have_ to save lives.”  
  
There was a heavy exhale. An expulsion that sounded more like relenting than acceptance.  
  
“Fine. But if it gets worse. You come here immediately. Understand? If it all goes to hell, you head north.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
The air was heavy for a beat, unspoken words from his end? Hers? Who knew. Before too long he’d grumbled a goodbye and disconnected.  
  
She spent 2 more weeks in her modest apartment in Washington. She spoke to her grandfather every night who’d insisted on keeping tabs on her safety and whereabouts.   
  
By the end of the first, her dog walker had stopped responding. It led to very unhappy pups and nightly pee puddles that left her hardwood floors irreparably warped. The city (and society by extension) devolved into a state of unrest. Arson and muggings, thefts and shootings ran rampant as the days progressed and the population was decimated. First responders fell like flies, usually the first in contact with the least amount of protection.   
  
By the end of the second, they were no closer to understanding the disease, much less finding a cure or vaccine. It was all hands on deck. She’d slept a maximum of 3 hours a night and sometimes she’d stay at the hospital. Those in the lab griped about having never seen a virus move this way or display these predatory characteristics. They said it multiplied in record time. That it practically melted the cells it came into contact with. That it decimated the immune system and hijacked the medulla within _hours_ of infection.   
  
Those they managed to stabilize ended up becoming empty shells of themselves. Mindlessly babbling like they’d had a messy lobotomy. Drooling and oozing out of every orifice. Their irises liquefied. All a way for the virus to continue spreading despite the carrier surviving its first assault.  
  
She ended up holding Dr. Andor’s gloved hand as they pulled the sheet over his wife’s lifeless body. She’d contracted it at her yoga class, he said. When he turned, he coughed blood all over her scrubs, wide pleading eyes asking for both help and to get away. In his eyes she saw the answer. The end to it all.  
  
That night she went home numb, packed her most important belongings into her little modest Hyundai and locked her door. In the wee hours of the night, she and her two charges made their way to the countryside through streets lined with litter and broken shards of glass. To her grandfather’s estate and away from the city that was quickly falling to ruin.

  
  


↪️

  
  


The map spans two pages. Small back roads she’ll need to choose to avoid the accidents that litter the bigger streets. Permanent fixtures of crumpled metal that block the roads and make passage difficult with her caravan.  
  
Two days. If her calculations are correct and the weather is favourable, she can make it there in 2 days.  
  
The little stub of an Ikea pencil traces a line up 26. If she can make it to the end of the interstate by tomorrow evening, she’ll be able to wiggle her way up to the border. Maybe take the 126 to the 180 which will bring her close to the edge of the water. She’ll need to figure things out from there but at least she’ll have arrived. Earmarking the page she tucks the pencil into the coil binding and sets it back into her knapsack.

Her hands reach to pull the spits off the fire, setting them aside to cool. She fishes out her trusty spoon and an opened can of peas. Shovels spoonful after spoonful of salty and sweet enters her mouth. The quarter can she’d nursed for the last few days is her serving of greens. The preserve liquid drips down her chin which she wipes off messily with the sleeve of her sweater, earning her a judgmental look from Romulus. His brother completely indifferent to her movements and content to gnaw at the mangy bones wedged between his paws.  
  
She sighs giving Romulus a pointed stare.  
  
Why did she let her grandfather name them? She could have named them something sweeter. Something less … epic. Rey was no majestic she-wolf suckling the children of Mars. She wasn’t rearing great war mongers nor was she setting them up to kill one another. She could have named them Tom & Jerry, or Bert & Earnie, or Bambi & Thumper. Frodo & Sam for fucks sake. Anything but ancient Roman figures. As a child she’d always been partial to Greek mythology anyway.  
  
But the names had stuck. A concession she made in gratitude to her grandfather for gifting them to her.  
  
A cool breeze swirls around her, dragging both the warmth of the fire and the impending cold of fall with it. Even if she loafts and drags the trip out, she’ll get there in time. Though she has no idea where to go from there. Hopefully the next pages of her grandfather's instructions will get her to his island before the snow sets in. She won’t flip the page until she’s followed the instructions and completed the next point. Allowing herself to look too far into the future is dangerous. Because there might not _be_ one. So why look to tomorrow when all you need to do is survive today?  
  
She prods at her roasted dinner. It’s hot but manageable, so she begins stripping a slice off to consume. It doesn’t burn her fingers anymore, not now that she’s built up callouses. Not since she’s grown accustomed to handling scalding food fresh off the fire in order to appease her stomach’s protests. Hunger is the new norm now.   
  
_This dinner was harder to catch_ , she ruminates while she pops the strip into her mouth, sucking in the cool air to help quell the heat of the roasted morsel. City squirrels are fatter and more trusting. Make easier game. Out here in the woods they’re harder to catch and skinnier, the muscles tough from actual use. Though the meat is much better since it wasn’t raised on back alley garbage and overzealous kids with bags of peanuts.  
  
Without preamble, she pulls the entire body off the spit and begins to eat with gusto. Fingers digging into the charred skin and what little fat it held dripping down her chin onto the log. Remus’ eyes trail a droplet, watching it patter onto the leafy ground and licking his lips.  
  
There’s no need for manners anymore. The last human she saw was her grandfather, and that was almost a year ago. Well, not necessarily. She’d run into a carrier just outside of Syracuse. An emaciated woman, all skin and bones and ratty hair. Eyes liquefied pools of brown and black. Lips purple and drool crusted. She’d approached Rey despite her warnings, though that never works on those who’ve been hijacked by the virus anyway. She’d had to shoot the woman. A small mercy, she thinks. Though carriers weren’t that common anymore. Not like in the first days.  
  
They’re not able to feed themselves. Unable to scavenge basic things like food, water, and shelter. Their bodies morphed into grotesque shapes. Wounds oozing pus and blood, twisted ankles and broken bones. Gangreened limbs and frostbitten feet. All injuries that would incapacitate a healthy person, but not these … these … zombies.   
  
She likes to think she’d done that woman a favour. That she’d managed to uphold her hippocratic oath in the bleakest of times. It was saving a life of sorts. Even if it meant brutally ending it. Euthanasia was a highly contested topic once upon a time. Now it’s nothing but humane, in her opinion. Consent having flown out the window the minute the virus took up residence in their bodies.  
  
She’d lifted her shotgun, braced her shoulder and let the loud snap ricochet through the air, the woman’s body crumpling only feet before her. She mourned the loss of a life. Mourned the loss of a bullet. Mourned the loss of another piece of her innocence.  
  
Everytime she used the shotgun she risked drawing attention to her whereabouts from other carriers. She also felt anxiety at her depleting stock of ammunition, wearily keeping an eye out for army surplus stores thereafter to scavenge more bullets. A strange hoarding monster having taken up residence in her skull. For every bullet she used, she felt the need to collect another box, to bolster her supplies for fear of running out. It’s how she ended up with a trunk full of clinking ammunition boxes.  
  
“They’re not _zombies_ ,” she admonishes herself out loud. Her voice hoarse from disuse and startling her. Romulus and Remus look up at her confused in turn. Even the crickets stop chirping for a moment at the interruption.  
  
 _They’re not_.  
  
There’s still recognition in their eyes. A brain all too aware of their predicament but unable to take action. The virus guiding their bodies blindly to infect the next available victim while their minds cried for freedom. Like watching the most horrific things happen through a window and being helpless to stop it.   
  
That’s what she’s convinced herself of. Having seen one too many of these carriers with tears in their eyes. It could have been just another means of infection. But she likes to think the tears are real. Their only form of pleading, their last hope for a humane end.  
  
“They’re in hell,” she mumbles quietly while sucking on a tiny bone, “I’m setting them free.”  
  
These days her voice is used only for commands and on occasions when she misses the sound of language. She’ll have the odd manic episode where she’ll randomly start talking to herself, if only to hold any form of discourse. Or sing a song she’ll never get to hear again. Or to laugh a stressed out, high-strung laugh that’s more devastating than joyful.   
  
It’s an escape, using her voice. An escape from this bleak reality that she’s alone again and an attempt at remembering normalcy all at once.  
  
As night begins to settle around her, she produces a ball of aluminum foil she’s meticulously cleaned at a creek and begins wrapping the remaining spoils. They won’t last long without preservatives like salt (and she only keeps that for special occasions), but they’ll get her through her journey to the water’s edge. Snacks she can nibble on while driving. They’ll serve as sustenance so she can keep her pilfered goods a little longer.  
  
Ever so carefully she begins to snuff out the fire by kicking mounds of moist earth over it, careful to stir up as little smoke as possible while she douses the flames.  
  
Tonight she’ll afford herself the luxury of sleeping in the trailer. On nights on or near the road she prefers to sleep with the dogs in the car. Cognizant of the fact that she might need to make a quick escape as roadways equal carriers, few as they might be now. But tonight, she’s well down a gravel road away from the remnants of civilization.  
  
Her grandfather’s modified Tesla model X with his trailer in tow safely nestled off the road. She double checks the car is locked before ushering the pups into the trailer and securing the latch and deadbolt. It’s tight inside. Growing only tighter with every stop she’d made on the road. Always using less than she scavenges for fear of running out.   
  
Every nook and cranny stuffed to the brim with medical supplies or canned foods. Even the toilet has been used to store every bottle of antibiotic she’s gleaned from abandoned pharmacies. Early raiders didn’t find interest in actual health drugs. Instead opting to steal what narcotics they could. Her stock of antibiotics will last her not one lifetime, but 10. Ammunition she keeps in the trunk of the car. The morphine she’s collected from hospitals resides in the fridge. The needles for administration in the cupboard beside it. The fridge doesn’t even work anymore. It’s just a place that’s safe but central. Inside she also keeps vials of lidocaine she’d found at a dental office. Perfectly good injectable anesthetic to preserve her stores of morphine.  
  
The under sink cupboard in the bathroom is on the verge of exploding with dog medication. Heartworm and rabies vaccines, two dozen bottles of tramadol, hundreds of vials of various life extending cocktails she meticulously administers as per a pilfered vet chart much to their chagrin. There she also stores an autoclave she hooks into the car to run. She’d taken that from the dental office too. It’s how she sterilizes their needles in order to preserve them.  
  
A pair of snowshoes sits on the small breakfast nook alongside a mountainous stack of maps. A milk crate full of snacks she’d taken from the last gas station on the bench. The compartment under the bench stocked full of honey courtesy of her grandfather.  
  
 _Honey is nature’s antibiotic_ , her grandfather had said, _it’s antibacterial and can last forever if properly sealed.  
  
_ She leans the shotgun beside the bed, toes off her boots, checks the ammunition in her glock and tucks that under the pillow. The dogs have already hopped onto the bed and begun circling to make their perfect nests.  
  
If she’d gone to bed earlier, she could have lit her solar lamp and pulled out a book to read. The storage bins under her bed are full of books.  
  
 _Edible mushrooms of Ontario, A Guide to Wild Game Hunting, Edible Wild Plants, How to Tap Maple Trees, The Ultimate Survival Medicine Guide, The Prepper’s Water Survival Guide, The Complete Medicinal Herbal, Gaia’s Garden: A Guide to Home-Scale Permaculture.  
  
_ Boring but vital, as her grandfather pointed out. But there were also those she couldn’t let go. Those she’d insisted on hauling from her apartment to her grandfather’s and beyond.  
  
Her medical textbooks she’d worked so hard for. Some costing her upwards of $1,000 each. Precious mementos of what she’d put blood, sweat and tears into. Sleepless nights and unhealthy amounts of instant coffee.  
  
Then there are the books that act as a release. Dickens, Atwood, Huxley, Michener, Lee, Verne, Rice and Fitzgerald. Classics she was gifted, bought or found abandoned. Beautiful stories that would ensure her language wouldn’t deteriorate and took her brain on adventures.  
  
Life rafts amid the storm. A chance at finding a moment of peace when her life had become a never ending string of survival tasks. Her little gold mine she’ll tuck into heartily once she settles in at her destination.  
  
Fully dressed she curls up in bed. Sleeping in leather leggings is _not_ the most comfortable and she _has_ a moth bitten tank and pajama pant set she’s saving for her final destination. But if any problems should arise, surviving in pajamas will be much harder than bug-proof leather. The dogs are already snoring at her feet and taking up most of the available space. They’ll wake her if there are any strange noises. During the day she protects _them._ At night, _they_ protect _her._ It’s their symbiotic relationship that’s kept them alive this long. They might, in fact, be the very last living creatures of their kind respectively.  
  
Most domesticated dogs didn’t survive long without their owners. She’d seen plenty of emaciated canine bodies in houses she’d scavenged. Or bones picked clean in a forest where she’s assumed they’d fallen prey to natural wildlife. Unable to survive without the basic survival skills that had long been bred out of them in favour of non-shedding coats or curlier tails. Once, outside her grandfather’s house, she found a matted goldendoodle. The matts were so bad, so thickly twined with sticks and excrement it had collapsed, barely breathing as it’s beady eyes begged for help.   
  
She squeezes her eyes shut trying to push those pleading eyes from her mind. Unlike humans, they couldn’t catch the virus. They could survive if only they’d been given the rope to. There was more humanity in their eyes than those that still walked the earth now.   
  
_Two days_ , she reminds herself as she drifts to sleep. Two more days and then she’ll find an ounce of safety.  
  
Sleep is good. It always is when she’s in the trailer. It always is when she knows she can find rest while the dogs’ ears keep vigil. On a real mattress, lumpy as it might be.  
  
When she does sleep, she dreams of eyes. Brown ones and blue ones, green and hazel ones. Flecked ones and liquid ones.   
  
She dreams of hugs. Dreams of a pair of arms that belong to a faceless man. A big man with dark hair, eyes like warm amber and Atlas’ shoulders.   
  
She dreams of ribbons of fog swirling across glassy waters early in the morning. Of a cabin on an island.   
  
She dreams of safety.  
  
She dreams of home.

  
  



	3. She Dreams of Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The car is a life saver._
> 
> _She’d originally snickered when he’d unveiled it in his garage. Poking fun at him over the fact that his precious bug out car was a fucking Tesla. A model X to boot. The most expensive post-apocalyptic survival car she could think of short of a McLaren (courtesy of that narcissistic plastic surgeon she’d gone on one date with)._
> 
> _Now she’s thankful for it. Understands why he’d chosen to modify it, even if it had seemed frivolous at the time. If she’d been dependent on fuel, she would have been on foot months ago. Maybe even a year ago._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Sensitive subject matters & topics included in this chapter:_  
> \- Extensive gun talk  
> \- Mercy killing  
> \- General survival anxiety throughout the chapter  
> \- General bleak outlook
> 
> ... so, y'know, don't read if it makes you uncomfortable?

Early morning sunlight pours through the shuttered blinds of the trailer’s sleeping compartment. The dogs are snoring peacefully. With the first deep breath of wakefulness, she picks up the sulfuric scent of Remus’ brand which tells her he’s not processing that raw squirrel too well. She frowns, scrunching her nose to block out the stench while her eyes adjust to the morning light.  
  
Giving them raw food was a spur of the moment decision. Usually, she’ll cook their share alongside hers to make sure they don’t catch any diseases. Sure, their bodies can handle raw food better than humans but she prefers to keep it on the safe side. They’d just looked at her with those big pleading eyes, pulling at her heart strings and begging so sweetly.  
  
She sighs heavily.  
  
 _Wrong move, Rey.  
  
_ Yawning, she stretches her muscles in whatever cramped space she’s got available on the bed. Romulus is yipping in his sleep. Little snores separated by muted barks. Remus’ head lifts up to look at her, a watery expression in his eyes.  
  
 _He’s got to go.  
  
_ She sighs again accepting defeat. This is a conundrum of her own making. The only one she can blame is herself. She’d let herself get soft and is now paying the price for that moment of weakness.   
  
It’s bullshit.   
  
But it’s reality.  
  
Usually, she won’t take one out without the other. There’s strength in a pack. Strength in having Romulus by her side. Strength in 3 pairs of eyes instead of a freshly woken pair and an aloof pair. But if it’s between waking poor Romulus up mid sleep or letting Remus shit in the bed … well she’ll just make an exception for her baby.  
  
She shifts out of bed stretching quietly. Cognizant of the fact that she’ll need to be fully awake. Fully aware. She doesn’t know what awaits them when that door swings open.   
  
That’s always the most perilous time. Especially in the morning when dangers could have amassed around the perimeter. When danger could be hiding just around the corner of the trailer or hidden on the other side of the car. Ready to pounce when she’s least expecting it. That was one of her grandfather’s lessons, the one that echoes in her sleep hazed skull every morning.  
  
Her neck twists to the left, then to the right. A series of small pops relieving pressure from having slept on a quarter of the mattress. Cramped muscles squeeze and stretch, unfurling to their full length, full strength.  
  
Behind her, Romulus stops twitching. The dream is over.  
  
With one last stifled yawn, she undoes yesterday’s sleep mussed braid and sweeps her hair into a loose bun while she slips back into her boots. She’ll need a haircut soon. One she’ll hopefully give herself when she arrives at her destination and can finally find peace.  
  
She doesn’t hold out much hope these days. Aware of the fact that each day could be her last. That any moment she could either catch the virus and perish, or succumb to any number of infections or injuries that would spell the end without medical professionals around.   
  
Sure, she can mend minor stuff. She’s even given herself stitches once or twice. But major work? Fat chance. That depends on her state of lucidity and that’s never a given with fatal or traumatic injuries.  
  
Rey grabs the leather biker jacket she found in an empty house, sliding her arms into the sleeves and rolling her shoulders to mold it to her body. Wraps her massive knitted infinity scarf around her nose and mouth. Reaches under the pillow for her glock flipping the safety off.  
  
Romulus has, in fact, awoken. His massive head watching her every move with utmost interest. Ready to take her side in an instant. At least now she can feel better about getting their day started. Knowing they’re both awake and she doesn’t have to concede their usual routine.  
  
The fact that neither dog has alerted her to any presence nearby sets her at ease if only a little, so she grabs her copper mug, pours water from her canteen into it and tucks her grandfather’s fire starter into her jacket pocket. A glass jar of instant coffee finds itself being stuffed into the same pocket moments later.  
  
Usually she likes to save coffee for special occasions or long days. It’s a luxury she doesn’t allow herself often. Not because it’s rare. No. Instant coffee is still well stocked on grocery store shelves. The problem is getting to it.   
  
With no electricity, supermarkets are essentially haunted houses with _very_ real dangers lurking inside. Infected bodies could be waiting around every corner, down every aisle and, with only a flashlight to light her way, she’d prefer to avoid the creep factor of venturing in. Nevermind the stench of rotting foods and potentially slippery floors where liquefied produce has oozed to create walking hazards. Or the hundreds of bacteria the tufts of mold could be releasing with just the faintest breeze.  
  
If she _does_ get coffee, it’ll be from small gas stations or convenience stores. Old commercial properties in narrow strip malls where daylight can flow in freely.   
  
The last time she had coffee was when she’d prepped that deer. Before that she’d used it sparingly on days she’d go out to check traps in the woods during the winter in the mountains. Or the time she needed to get out of the Syracuse area after shooting that woman. She’d shaken the jar straight into her canteen, swirled it around aggressively to mix. Drinking it gritty and cold while she sped off down the freeway.  
  
Today feels like a long day, so she wants to give herself the best head start. From the crate of goodies she’d gleaned at the gas station, she grabs a granola bar (probably expired but it’s not mouldy so … eeh) stuffing it into the elastic strap of her dingy sports bra before adjusting her scarf back in place.  
  
With two fingers she pries open the blinds over the non-functioning sink a sliver, checking the immediately visible surroundings for danger. There’s none to be found. The forest is, for all intents and purposes, utterly still.   
  
A light mist ghosting over the leafy ground. Two robins pecking at the grassy clearing around her fire pit without a single care in the world. Usually a good sign, but one can never be too careful.  
  
Turning her head to the pups, she gives them a nod, clutches the gun tighter and walks to the door. The mug deposited on the edge of the counter to be grabbed once the coast is clear.  
  
Nimble fingers work to release the deadbolt and lock silently. Romulus and Remus take their places at her side as she turns the latch enough to let the door creak open a quarter inch.  
  
 _Deep breath in, deep breath out.  
  
_ Hands wrapped around the grip, shoulders bracketed and ready for the kickback. With the steel toe of her boots, she gently nudges the door open with enough force to swing it all the way without crashing into the side. Aluminum on aluminum clangs draw too much attention, so she’s mastered the art of applying the perfect amount of pressure.  
  
It hadn’t been hard. Her training as an emergency physician and daily practice made her well aware of how every muscle in her body moved. How much pressure it was exerting and how much force was behind each motion. Adjusting from human to inanimate objects had been the real challenge.  
  
Humans are made of softness, their bodies have give and predictable weight that can be eyeballed based on proportion. Inanimate objects can vary in density regardless of size. A handful of lead can weigh as much as a human child. A large paper box can weigh less than a feather. The force required to incite action, always a crap chute until you’ve interacted or manipulated the object a few times. Gotten the feel of it.  
  
She’s good at it now. At least with the things in her possession.  
  
The door remains wide open painting a picture of a tranquil dawn. Nothing but birds chirping in the early morning and a verdant clearing off a dirt road. She’d swung it open so silently even the two robins didn’t take off, happily pecking the ground for worms.  
  
Remus is the first one out of the trailer. With a stressed out yawn and an impatient grunt he saunters down the few steps and trots his way over to the clearing. Immediately squatting down when he reaches grass to relieve himself.  
  
Romulus follows in tow, an annoyed whuff escaping him.  
  
 _Yeah, you’re right, big guy. Your brother … he’s careless.  
  
_ Her second in command stands in front of the open door for a moment, head held high and sniffing the air, watchful of his brother and protective of his mother. After a long series of sniffs (and Remus’ legs kicking up a cloud of wet grass in the wake of the massive soft pile he’s so gallantly dropped), Romulus decides the coast is clear.  
  
Rey lowers her gun to her side flipping the safety back on, grabs her mug and steps onto the damp earth. The scent of fall thick in the air, fallen leaves already beginning to decompose creating an acrid earthy scent that permeates her nostrils.  
  
With one of the charred logs she pushes around the pit to rebuild a decent pile for the small fire she’ll need to boil her water. She rolls up and inserts a few pieces of dry birch bark between the decimated logs and starts working the fire starter against them until they spark.   
  
Once it’s taken root she gently puts her mug next to it, pulls out her jar of coffee to deposit next to the shitty log and heads back in to grab the boys breakfast. Two aluminum bowls heaped with one brand or another of kibble. Whatever’s open. She doesn’t read the labels anymore.  
  
They feast in silence. She working through the sticky sweetness of the granola bar, the boys crunching the kibble ravenously while the early morning sounds of the woods fill their ears and hearts with the promise of a new day. A day of clear skies and (hopefully) manageable roadways. A day that will bring them halfway to their destination, if not further.   
  
The mug is hot in her hands, the coffee strong. The granola bar pleasantly filling.   
  
Silently, she snuffs out the fire after making a second cup to go. Silently, she checks the trailer’s hitch, all the tires, the car’s battery charge, and packs the dog’s bowls back in the trailer. All while the dogs romp and roll in the clearing, affording them a rare moment of puppyhood before they return to their bleak existence.  
  
Silently, they slip into the cabin of the car and onto the dirt road. Nothing but silence enveloping them as the tires crunch against the dirt and the forest they’d called home for the night, shrinks in the rear view mirror.  
  
Silently, she wonders if she’s become too dependent on the pups for survival.

  
  


…

  
  


She hadn’t made as good time as she’d thought. Chancing a glance up at the roof of the car, she frowns deeply. The expanse of glass that would normally give her an unobstructed view of the sky had been covered by solar cells that her grandfather had hooked into the battery to keep it charging. Not that she needs to look up to see it’s getting late. That she’s running out of time today.  
  
The car is a life saver.  
  
She’d originally snickered when he’d unveiled it in his garage. Poking fun at him over the fact that his precious bug out car was a fucking _Tesla_. A model X to boot. The most expensive post-apocalyptic survival car she could think of short of a McLaren (courtesy of that narcissistic plastic surgeon she’d gone on _one_ date with).  
  
Now she’s thankful for it. Understands _why_ he’d chosen to modify it, even if it had seemed frivolous at the time. If she’d been dependent on fuel, she would have been on foot months ago. Maybe even a year ago.   
  
If it was sunny, she could go for miles. Navigating stretches of overgrown or decrepit freeways and saddle roads. If it was overcast she could either stay put to conserve battery and let it charge with whatever latent energy the solar cells capture, or aim for a better resting spot based on the range count.  
  
Now the sun is setting. The sky awash in bright hues of orange and red while she’s just turning onto Route 12. She hadn’t planned on going this far. Had taken her sweet time driving carefully to avoid anything that looked suspicious to save her tires, deftly navigating around heaped cars and abandoned ones, deep pot holes and cracks in the pavement.  
  
She could have gone faster, sure. There’s a spare set of tires in the trailer, stacked high beside the breakfast nook’s bench. They’re heavy as fuck and she has the tools. Her grandfather had shown her as much. But she has no idea how to change tires. And watching how-to videos or Googling step by step instructions is long out of the question.  
  
If there’s a time and place she’s willing to invest time to learning the art of changing tires, en route is not it. She’d prefer to figure it all out once she gets there. Wherever her grandfather said would be safe.  
  
Freeways were built for speed. For convenience of travel. Now they’re a royal pain in the neck (albeit still the quickest route) thanks to the endless stretch of discarded vehicles in all states of disrepair strewn along its edges. Sometimes there’s an old accident that clogs the center lanes, one that was never cleared. A constant reminder of just how quickly everything fell apart.   
  
She supposes freeways are still better than constantly checking the paper maps. If it’s between keeping her eyes on the road or driving distracted, let’s just say she learned her lesson getting that mind blowingly expensive ticket for checking her phone in first year of med.  
  
The minute she’d gotten closer to the junction of 81 and 12, the minute she saw the strip malls of Watertown lining the edges of the highway, she’d gotten anxious. Pulled over (a pointless but engrained habit now that there are no other travellers) to consult the map and found a lake in a game reserve only a few miles out. It was on the way to her destination so it felt like the right move.  
  
Now? She’s not so sure.  
  
When she’d made the decision the sun seemed higher, the day contained more available hours. She should have checked her watch but she’s not sure it _actually_ works anymore. Not sure if the time is correct or if she’s one of those magnetic people that screw up the quartz mechanism inside. Maybe she’s just a shitty watch owner, having never owned one until her grandfather gifted her this one.  
  
Nowadays she tells time by the sun. And right now, time is running out.  
  
The dogs are restless and based on the turn she’d just taken onto an unnamed road off 12, she should be able to find a half decent spot to pull into for the night.  
  
The road seems to lead to nowhere. An endless stretch of unkempt asphalt that goes on forever. Drilling into the flat wilderness, tall grasses and pockets of huddled trees lining her chosen path. The dense forest of the reserve visible in the distance forever out of reach. Well, not technically. She _could_ aim for it. But that would mean deviating too far from Route 12 and she’d prefer to stay close. Far enough to be safe, close enough to pick up without too much trouble.  
  
It’s still a little too close to the crumbling remnants of civilization. Too close for her liking, but it’ll have to do. If they sleep in the cramped confines of the car tonight, it’s a small price to pay for being that much closer to the island.   
  
A small driveway to the lake appears on her right and without preamble she turns in. There’s something to be said about trusting your gut these days, and right now her gut says this is good enough. She maneuvers her caravan onto the earthen tracks covered with weeds. Anxious to let the dogs out and stretch her legs.  
  
The short driveway leads her to a gravel parking lot open on all sides, flanked by a smattering of medium sized trees. Young maples that still have a 50/50 chance of actually making it. Half the parking lot is submerged, so she assumes it must have rained here a lot recently.   
  
Remus starts whining as she swings the car around, lining it up flush with the waterline to give their left side full protection. His feet patter in the back seat, little taps that drum an anxious rhythm against the supple synthetic leather now utterly ruined by the boys’ overgrown nails.  
  
Rey has clippers. Rey does _not_ have the strength nor patience to hold them down and figure out how to clip them.  
  
She turns the car off, grips the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white while she just listens for a minute. Raises her hand to signal quiet in the back seat which Remus concedes to with a gruff exhale. All the while she sees Romulus sitting absolutely still, his enormous head looking out towards the road (not the lake, she notices) sniffing the air wafting in through the cracked window beside his brother.   
  
Rey lowers her hand, feeling around the passenger seat for the glock. The empty tinfoil of her roast squirrel crinkling and map rustling as her fingers scurry through the pile until they find the cold handle of the magazine. Her thumb rubs up and down the diamond embossed handle for strength.  
  
It’s become a self-soothing motion. A newly formed habit that she’s developed out of necessity. The constant stress of being on edge, of overthinking herself to the point of exhaustion with the sole purpose of survival had nearly driven her insane at first. After she’d been left alone. After it was just her and the boys. The gun quickly became her shelter in the storm. A dependable presence that wiped out worries and set her at ease.   
  
One time she’d woken up in the early morning, just before the first rays of the sun could sweep across the landscape to a carrier standing about a foot from her car. Watching. Waiting. Calculating. Liquefied irises boring into her intact ones. Mouth set in a bone-chilling sneer thanks to a split lip that had festered to expose the upper mandible’s rotting bone.   
  
The dogs had alerted her. Both barking and snarling, in the throes of feral aggression. Her heart hammered and her throat constricted while she slowly reached for the gun on the passenger seat, eyes locked onto weeping liquefied ones. While she started the car and lowered the window just enough to let the barrel peek through.  
  
There was no double guessing. No moment of hesitation. She braced her shoulders, took aim and squeezed her eyes shut, pulled the trigger and drove off while her ears still rang from the deafening boom of the gunshot. Not willing to stick around and see if there would be more. To experience the ramifications of her action. That was on the first morning after she’d left her grandfather’s estate.  
  
After that, her fingers began craving the embossed texture. The sense of security its presence imbued her with. Her thumb imprinted with the feel of it so much so she feels it like a ghost limb when she’s not holding it.   
  
She doesn’t always use the glock. It’s just easier to carry. Easier to grab. Easier to load and clean than the rifle. Easier to scavenge ammunition for ... or at least it _had_ been closer to cities. Further out in open country she’d found more for her shotgun, so now she’s evenly balanced in terms of stock.   
  
It’s her best inanimate friend. Her constant companion despite its forceful kickback.  
  
Without further ado, she opens the car door and swings her feet onto the sunken gravel, quickly scurrying to let the dogs out of the back seat. The falcon wing hisses quietly as it lifts. She doesn’t usually use this. Finds it a waste of battery. Usually lets them out through the front, letting their enormous bodies barrel over the console and the driver seat.   
  
Her body’s at the ready, left hand cupped under her right which grips the handle just like she'd been taught. Posture rigid and shoulders lax, ready to fire off at a moment’s notice. The car releasing its precious cargo while she keeps watch, protectively scanning their surroundings with her gun at the ready.  
  
Romulus takes his place by her side while Remus takes off automatically. Nose to the ground sniffing until he finds an acceptable patch of grass to relieve himself on. Rey rolls her eyes lovingly.   
  
_Always thinking with his bladder.  
  
_ Romulus looks up at her questioningly. She can’t help letting her heart swell with love for him. The way his big puppy eyes ask for permission to do what his brother’s already done of his own free will. Her hand comes down to pet his head gently, scratch behind his ear before giving him a nod and a smile.  
  
“Go,” she murmurs hoarsely, “go make a pee, baby.”

  
  


…

  
  


It turns out wintering in that cottage had been a spectacular idea.  
  
Where before the threat of carriers had been high, the possibility of running into an emaciated body lurking around every bend, now there’s none. Outside of the one woman she’d seen, there have been exactly zero. Not even their bodies. Not even bones.  
  
She shivers as she adjusts in the front seat of the car to get comfortable. The thought of others dragging corpses to use as food. The thought of wild animals, wolves and bears, coyotes or birds of prey picking them clean.   
  
They were people once. Their only fault being perhaps carelessness or feelings of invincibility. They deserve a better death. A proper burial. Someone to mourn them.  
  
She sucks in a shuddering breath and looks up at the sky through the driver side window. At least the stars are beautiful. Now with no light pollution the galaxy stretches endlessly across the black expanse of space. Dotting the sky with millions of bright stars so dense it looks blue and purple in sections.   
  
It’s beautiful, she thinks.   
  
She wishes she could capture it. Wishes she had a camera and a way to develop the photos so she can share them with … no one. She’d share them with no one.   
  
Because she’s alone.

  
  


↩️

  
  


“You’re going to want to brace yourself. Keep your shoulders loose,” he says from his rickety folding chair. They’re at the edge of his estate. The boys are lounging in the heat of early June. Romulus laying down but wholly focused on Rey, like he too is learning his lessons. Remus, sprawled on his back, belly to the sun and legs splayed like a pig in mud. His tongue lolls out as he snores deeply.  
  
Her grandfather insisted on giving her lessons with the guns. She’d made decent progress with the rifle in the last week. Most times shooting blanks because they needed to conserve ammunition. Sheev tutting and adjusting her stance. A little lower here, neck less tense there. _Look further_ , he’d say over and over. Like looking past your target was some kind of magical string that would tie the bullet directly to the entry point. It worked, of course, but it still irked her as a teaching tool.  
  
“Now take your supporting hand and cup it underneath like a clam. Good, Rey, good,” he coughs wetly before shakily getting to his feet. His cold wrinkly hands fall on her bare shoulders to jostle her. Presumably to loosen her up because ever since he’d started trying to teach her to shoot, he’d insisted she was stiff as a board. _Too wooden_.  
  
“Good,” he says, letting silence envelope them. There’s the sound of the first birds chirping, Remus’ snores, one of Sheev’s joints popping. Then there’s a push from behind. One that sees her right foot immediately step forward to stabilize her. “Good. Great stability. Excellent stance.”  
  
Today they’re practicing with bullets. He’d decided that she was good enough with the shotgun, she’ll be good enough with the hand gun. It’s more a lesson on stance and a chance to feel the kickback. A practice in aim.   
  
He groans as he slowly trudges back to the folding chair. There’s a line of empty tin cans (ones they hadn’t completely demolished with the shotgun) balancing on a log, ready to be shot off in practice.   
  
“Go ahead,” he rasps, gagging back another wet cough.  
  
He’s not doing well. She knows this.   
  
None of the noises he makes come from the virus, that much she's certain of. She’s seen plenty of it during her last two weeks in the city. But he’s prone to wracking coughs. His hands are always frigid. He wheezes when he walks up stairs and moves around with less energy than a sloth. Emphysema, she thinks.  
  
She focuses on the first can. Baked beans and bacon, the label reads. One they’d shared her first night at his estate. The one they washed down with a finger of whiskey and a few saltine crackers. She’d still felt hunger then, having acclimated to a full belly during college and med school only to devolve back into her foster care roots of endless hunger pangs and the constant roil of an empty stomach.   
  
_Deep breath in, deep breath out.  
  
_ The crack of the shot rings through the air. A metallic ping and the tin tips over the edge of the log to disappear behind it. It’s powerful, but not like the shotgun. Lighter yet just as dense.   
  
“Wonderful,” her grandfather cackles from his seat, “try again, Rey.”  
  
Taking aim at the next tin, this one with the label completely peeled and the shape mangled from multiple grazing shots, she focuses on her breathing again. Fingers twitching and adjusting to hug the grip tightly. She drums her fingers against her cupped knuckles in preparation, taking a deep breath in and releasing.  
  
Just as she’s about to pull the trigger, Romulus stands and begins barking. An alarm. One that jolts Remus out of his sleep and into action. He soon joins his brother’s barking in the same general direction.  
  
The same direction she and her grandfather are now facing. Watching a young man wearing bloodied overalls with a dislocated shoulder and a twisted ankle shuffle towards them. Eyes liquefied pools of oceanic blue and black. His lips still show a tinge of pink like he’d only recently recovered.  
  
Her heart skips into her throat, fingers shaking as she sees this … boy … approach. They should retreat. Run back behind the electrified fence he maintains around the direct vicinity of the house. He’ll go away. They go away. Don’t they?  
  
“Well now’s a good a time as any,” her grandfather sounds surprisingly relaxed, “go ahead. Forget the tin. Put this young man out of his misery.”  
  
 _Surely not.  
  
_ Surely he doesn’t expect her to _end_ a life. It goes against everything she’s worked for. Everything she’s become.  
  
The dogs’ barks have turned savage, bodies vibrating with each snap of their jaws in the direction of the carrier. Saliva flung every which way with every vicious snarl. The energy in their limbs screaming at her. They’re holding back, waiting for the command. Waiting for her to say _go_ so they can attack.   
  
But she won’t. She can’t. This is inhumane. What Sheev is asking her to do is…  
  
“Go ahead, Rey.”  
  
She wavers. Unable to squeeze yet unable to release her hold either. Suspended in disbelief and incapacitated by sheer terror. The choice … is it a choice?  
  
“If you don’t put him out of his misery he’ll come put us in our own version of hell,” her grandfather delivers coldly.  
  
He’s right. God dammit, he’s fucking right. There’s no recovering from this. He — this boy — _is_ what recovery looks like. And that’s not life. That’s not living.  
  
“Do it,” his voice is deep and chilling. A sinister command delivered with what sounds like heartless resolve.  
  
Her aim is true. Her breathing even. Her heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. She adjusts her aim, tying the invisible string to the center of the boy's head. Squeezes her eyes as she squeezes the trigger.

  
  


↪️ 

  
  


_Plop.  
  
_ She must have slept. And deeply because the early morning rays are only starting to peek in the distance on her left. There’s soft whuffs from the back, sleeping dogs curled in all kinds of strange positions she’s stopped trying to name. Splashing from outside.  
  
Splashing.  
  
Outside.  
  
Her eyes fly open, hand extending automatically to grab the glock. Sleep quickly replaced by sheer panic because an outside noise…  
  
But the dogs aren’t barking. They’re sleeping peaceful as can be.  
  
She slowly turns her head to perform a 180 perimeter sweep. Checks the side mirrors on the car towards the trailer. A cold tingle of adrenaline zings up her spine. The little sliver of orange light barely illuminating her surroundings, just enough to help her see … nothing.  
  
There’s another splash to her left and her head snaps in the direction to see … nothing.   
  
Again.  
  
There must be one crawling at the water’s edge. Her hand comes up to snap her fingers once. Quiet enough to not draw attention from whatever’s outside but loud enough to give the command. To rouse the pups from their slumber and catch their attention. Both their heads shoot up in tandem, Remus performing some new level of canine acrobatics to return to a sitting position from the previous jackknifed pretzel. Their heads turn slowly, noses wiggling in the air to sniff the outside air through the little crack she’s left in the back window but they alert her to nothing.  
  
Another splash. Their heads turn in the opposite direction but still, no sign of danger on their faces. Not even the rumbling beginnings of a growl.  
  
Romulus sniffs diligently but decides it’s both not worth his efforts and that it’s completely safe. He releases a yawn before laying back down on the bench to lick his paws.  
  
 _Christ these kids don’t take anything seriously!  
  
_ She releases an exaggerated eye roll, annoyed with his inability to understand that his attention is _vital_ to their survival. Then … she sees it.   
  
A splash further out followed by the rippling of concentric circles. A little fishtail peeking out of the water for a split second before disappearing again.  
  
Fish. Fish are active early in the morning.  
  
There’s a laugh from deep inside. It’s painful in her chest and she feels queasy with how hard her empty stomach is flexing with it. It gurgles under the pressure of her twitching abdominals. Tears sting her eyes as she lets out an anxious titter.  
  
 _Fish.  
  
_ She almost lost her shit over fish.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still diving into the post-apocalyptic psyche. Rey's sheer will to survive & her fiery spirit. Her lack of (or unwillingness to believe in) hope. The first little bit of this fic is really drilling into what a lone human would do, how they would think/behave when confronted with unsurvivable odds. It's bleak ... for now ...
> 
> But _hey_ Ben makes an appearance in the next chapter so ... hooray?


	4. She Dreams of Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _At first she squints her eyes, trying to figure out what it could possibly be. Floating particles travel with the river’s current, not against it. They certainly don’t cut diagonally on a very specific trajectory._
> 
> _Then cold dread settles in her veins. Because it’s not a log. It’s a canoe of sorts with what looks to be a person inside. Her breath hitches in her throat and she toes back slowly until her back hits the trailer._
> 
> _With shaky fingers she unlatches the door and stumbles inside, grabs for her shotgun before tripping down the stairs and back out. She toes her way across the lot, keeping her eye trained on the approaching canoe. A short whistle to get the dogs attention. They sprint to her side in the blink of an eye. Attentive. Attuned. At the ready._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably take a minute here to clarify something that I usually get insanely anxious about - nothing will happen to the pups. And I mean **nothing**. They'll be safe and happy and will frolic and romp like the goodest boys they are. So if that was a worry of yours, fear not, I won't let anything happen to them.
> 
> I'm one of those people who refuses to watch movies where any harm comes to pets. So if there's a dog or cat in the trailer (ie. I Am Legend) I now resort to Googling whether the animal dies because my heart literally can't take it. Yeah ... I'm a p*ssy, sue me.
> 
>  _Sensitive subject matters & topics included in this chapter:_  
> \- Reference to knives (as protection/for survival)  
> \- Assessment of surroundings for dangers  
> \- Minor anxiety & uncertainty over approaching human

She’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. No. It’s a gift for sure, she has no qualms about admitting it. So she takes full advantage of their early morning by the lake.  
  
With first light she lets the dogs out to roam in close proximity, to keep watch and sniff their surroundings while she tops up their supplies.   
  
She starts by building a quick fire pit in the gravel, filling it with whatever dried logs she finds near the clearing. A few dry clumps of grass get tucked between the pile of logs before she begins sparking the fire starter next to them until they catch. She nurtures the tiny flames with cupped hands and gentle breaths, pushing the glowing tufts into the center with a twig and watching its progress carefully.  
  
When she’s satisfied it’s taken, she leaves to rummage through the trailer. Three large stock pots, a spool of fishing string, rusty scissors, her mug, a granola bar, and two aluminum bowls of kibble get hauled out into the crisp morning air.   
  
Romulus and Remus sit patiently, little stubby tails thumping quietly against the gravel as they wait for her to dish out their breakfast. She lays out their bowls facing the road, it’s best their eyes are trained in that direction. Even if they’re busy eating, they’ll pick up minute sounds and movements, giving them a few precious second’s head start if shit were to hit the fan.  
  
She steps into the water only as far as her boots are waterproof, scooping the pots in the shallows until they’re brimming and heavy. Hauling them one by one back to her precious, healthy fire while her fingers tingle from the cold.   
  
The pots get arranged in a haphazard triangle around the heart of the fire, enough to start heating them, eventually bring them to a boil, but not close enough to snuff out the flames.  
  
She busies herself with cutting a bit of fishing string and tying a squirrel bone to it. Casting it into the mirrored sheet of the lake as the orange glow of the sun begins to warm her surroundings. It’s how she manages to catch herself a decently sized bream and a trout.  
  
Rey’s never been a fan of cleaning fish. She’d always opted to buy fillets and pre-cut slabs at the grocery stores in the before. Scaling and deboning, scooping out innards … acts that are far from her list of core skills. But she’s had to learn. And she’d gotten good enough at it.   
  
At least fish is easier to prep than deer.   
  
She shivers remembering the _smell_. Like an equestrian stable and like iron. Like death and like life all at once.  
  
Depositing the cleaned fish inside her freshly scrubbed tinfoil, she folds them into little packets, depositing them next to the fire to cook. Maybe when she gets there, when she finds the island, she’ll consult her grandfather’s portable survival library. Maybe one of the books in there will have tips on building a smoker. Those usually help preserve meat for longer.  
  
For now, steamed will do, though she kind of wishes she had a lemon. That always helps cut the taste of fish. Morphs it into something palatable. It’s not that she doesn’t like fish. Nowadays she can’t afford to be picky and has eaten far stranger foods. She’s had worms and possum, mourning dove and even a garter snake. But her old self, the one that had gotten just a little _too_ comfortable, always preferred oceanic fish. A nice mahi mahi or halibut. Freshwater types were too … fishy.  
  
The stock pots begin to gurgle, so she quickly pulls them off the fire now that they’ve reached a rolling boil. Sets them aside as far as she can muster without burning her bare fingers.   
  
She scoops her tin mug in one of the pots and mixes a generous sprinkle of instant coffee, enjoying her breakfast cup of joe with another expired granola bar while watching the flames lick around the packets. The foil crinkles and cracks, the granola bar sticks to her hard palette, the coffee is bitter and hot. Romulus and Remus laze next to her in the early morning sun next to their empty breakfast bowls.   
  
The heat of the fire warms her shins and hands. The tip of her nose and immediate surroundings. Nights are starting to get cooler and by extension, mornings are now too. She’ll need to close out her journey quickly if she’s to survive a winter. Wherever she’ll be, she’ll need to find a sturdy enough shelter and hack herself enough firewood to last through the worst of the cold snaps this far north.   
  
And she’s not that great with an axe even if she’s had a full winter’s practice in that mountain cabin. She’d survived off a healthy stock of pre-cut wood and her splintered, crooked twiggy logs she’d managed to cut off young trees.  
  
But she has coffee and the grit of stubborn determination. _If_ she gets there, she’ll get to survive. She’ll allow herself the hope of dreaming of a future.  
  
She takes a long sip of too bitter instant coffee, eyes trained towards the rising sun. The way its rays begin to warm the tufts of clouds above, casting them in an orange light that reflects off the deep blue of the lake. The way the fine mist of a fog begins to retreat as the sun warms the surface of the water. Today’s the day, she smiles to herself. The day she makes it. The day she can mentally check off another step off her grandfather’s list of instructions and move onto the next. Today she’ll reach the shore.  
  
She _deserves_ a weak cup of coffee and another sweet granola bar. Though, if she’s being honest, the closer she gets, the more irresponsible she’s becoming with her stores.  
  
The island isn’t some safe haven. She knows this deep down inside. It isn’t a portal into the old world where food was ordered online and tropical fruit sat in carefully constructed displays on grocery store shelves. She’ll still need to work. Still need to figure out logistics of growing food, foraging, hunting … _surviving_. It’s just a place she knows she’ll be safe. A place she’ll be able to put raw instincts aside and _be.  
  
_ A place she won’t have to look over her shoulder every minute. Where the hair on the back of her neck can relax for once.  
  
Finishing her coffee, she eyes the lake in contemplation. Hosting an internal argument with herself while stealing glances at her surroundings. There’s a pair of mallards floating across the surface of the lake, unbothered by the state of the world. Happily ruffling their feathers and gliding across the placid waters. An opportunity like this doesn’t arise often, she huffs in concession.  
  
Is it safe? No, never. Is it opportune? Yes, absolutely.  
  
 _Oh, fuck it.  
  
_ Standing up and stretching her limbs, Rey does something she hasn’t done in weeks. She affords herself the luxury of a bath.  
  
She rummages through the trailer for a cake of soap and a bottle of shampoo, strips down to her birthday suit and steps into the water to scrub herself clean while the pups keep vigil. Which is to say, Remus runs into the water alongside her, splashing and jumping in the frigid water like it’s a game while Romulus sits next to the water’s edge, eyes trained towards the road while his brother forgets (yet again) their purpose.   
  
Her skin pimples and her teeth clatter but the simple joy of purification dulls the cold. Or maybe that’s just her body growing numb from the water? She works soap into a lather, runs it over her skin and scrubs with the pads of her fingers. When her body’s acclimated to the cold she carefully toes in further, to her waist where she allows herself a quick dunk to wet her hair. Wading back to shore to deposit a pat of shampoo, working it through her tangled hair then going back into dunk, rinse, and detangle with her fingers.  
  
She dries herself off with a threadbare towel, padding her way over to the trailer barefoot and shivering. Jagged gravel nipping the soles of her feet as she steps gingerly across the short distance. Inside, she changes into her green utility pants and tan leather jacket. Braids her dripping hair until it hangs loosely over her shoulder, rivulets of lake water running down the front of the jacket and dripping at her feet haphazardly.  
  
She grabs her previous change of clothes, drapes them over the unmade bed and begins to wipe them down with the still wet towel she’d used to dry herself off. To wipe them clean for another day’s wear. Maybe one day, on the island, she’ll use some of the fishing wire to make herself a clothesline. Maybe she’ll venture into an abandoned dollar store (if she finds the guts) to find some pins. Maybe some detergent. _Maybe_ , one day, she’ll get a chance to do something as mundane as laundry again.  
  
Leaving her change of clothes to dry on the bed, she straps on her thigh holster, double-checking the fit by sliding the gun in and out a few times before securing it, tucking her knives into the available compartments. Two serrated hunting knives she’d found at the army surplus store right after she’d shot the woman near Syracuse and went on a rampage for more bullets.   
  
They’re not the ones her grandfather gave her. Those were too big. Fuck, one of them is a machete. Like she knows what to do with _that._ So when she’d seen these two at the surplus store, their glint caught her eye. As did their compact size and serrated blades. It wasn’t that she needed them, but they felt right in her hand. Their grip more comfortable. It was a little act of defiance towards her grandfather’s meticulously laid out plans and lessons. A little nod to herself. A little reminder that she _could.  
  
_ Patting the handles lovingly, she makes quick work of pouring the purified water into her mismatched collection of aluminum and glass canteens. Rinses the boy’s bowls in the lake and puts the fish into an empty stock pot to cool. She’ll bring that pot along in the cab of the car, letting the cold morning air cool the packets as they drive.  
  
Before the sun has finished rising above the treeline in the distance, she’s put everything away, snuffed out the fire, and locked up the trailer. They pack into the car where she pats the grips of the knives again. Ready to reach her destination as she pulls out of the gravel lot.  
  
If they reach the shore today, who knows what’ll await her. She’ll need to find an amphibious mode of transportation. Will need to hide the car and trailer. Will need to haul supplies to her chosen shelter _if_ she finds one. Knives come in handy like that. Sure, guns are great for protection but when it comes to survival ... _knives_ are multi-purpose.

  
  


↩️

  
  


“You know what the safest place to be is in a dooms day situation?”  
  
“No,” she lifts her head from the book she’d been reading by candlelight. They’re sitting in his study. He pouring over paper maps and jotting down notes. Notes he hides under the sleeve of his oversized black robe when she dares let her eyes wander. “Enlighten me, Sheev.”  
  
“An island,” he cackles darkly, maniacal laughter turning into yet another series of wet coughs. “In _most_ cases, an island is the safest. Do you know why?”  
  
His fingers grasp a crystal tumbler he’d poured himself a second helping of whisky into. She hates whisky. It’s too harsh, burns too much. She’s always been a wine over spirits kind of girl. The girl who appreciates a palette over a fiery burn. Though, she supposes, that doesn’t matter anymore these days.  
  
“I don’t,” she lets the book fall in her lap. Flapped open as though she were planning on picking it back up. She’s not really into it. ‘Tales of the South Pacific’, a collection of short tales regaling the allies battles on the eastern front.   
  
Not that it’s bad, that plastic surgeon she’d gone on a date with painted it as a modern marvel of literature, so maybe she’s coming at it with a twisted view. Already disliking it because of his high praise. It just happened to jump out at her from Sheev’s library. Ultimately, she reasons she prefers something with a romance at the base. Something she fears she’ll never experience now.  
  
She craves a book about love so deep, a bond so strong the apocalypse couldn’t break it. Ironic, isn’t it? Now that (according to Sheev) it’s come.  
  
“Islands are self-contained ecosystems. Like a fortress. Easy to protect, easy to manage. As long as you have a boat — and I suggest something non-motorized to spare yourself the trouble of having to secure a fuel source — you’ll always be safe on an island.”  
  
Rey nods along slowly. Mostly indifferent but conversation is conversation. Her cellphone stopped working weeks ago. Television stations are mostly static with the occasional transmission coming through. Pre-programmed reruns is her best guess there. Radio is also mostly static but those that _do_ transmit mindlessly babble about the end of the world which gives her anxiety so she’s chosen to keep away from those as well. Her only source of conversation is Sheev, so she makes do.  
  
The pups are snoring at her feet. Huddled close to one another and the stray corner of the blanket she’d haphazardly draped over her lap.  
  
“It can’t just be _any_ island though,” he starts again, leaning back in his chair like the grandmaster and stroking his hands, “it has to be the _right_ island. In a location that’s conducive to crop growth. Has to be in freshwater not salt. It has to be either near a shore or other islands. Has to be close to good hunting, large forests for firewood. But not too close, of course. It needs to be a healthy distance from other land so you have plenty of time to prepare for an attack.”  
  
“It sounds like you’ve got just the spot in mind,” she knows she’s stroking his ego at this point. But … why not? If he gets too excited he’ll wear himself out faster and save her the headache of his constant droning and survival fact peddling.  
  
“Aah, but I do,” he wags his finger knowingly, a creepy ancient smile pasted on his face, “the thousand islands!”  
  
His hand sweeps over the map covering his desk. It’s an invitation to look. So Rey heaves a sigh, places the book next to the candle and stands up careful not to rouse the boys.  
  
The map is confusing at best. She’s a doctor not a cartographer or geographer. She’d hedge her bets on him being equally confused looking at a dissection cadaver on a metal table. So she glances up at his smiling face for some clue to where she should be looking.  
  
“Here,” his hand sweeps over the entirety of the map again, “all of these are safe. All of them. But _one_ is better than the rest. _One_ I’ve prepared in the eventuality of this _exact_ scenario.”  
  
“I see,” she doesn’t, but it’s better to agree.  
  
“That’s where we’re going if it gets worse,” he coughs into his shaking hand, “and by all accounts it is. I’m keeping an eye out, don’t you worry, Rey.”  
  
“I trust you,” she lies smooth as silk. It’s nothing personal. Blood or not, she’s only known him for a few months. Before him she’d fought and scraped for everything she had. Trust was never something she gave out freely. Not since her one foster brother who’d stolen the $20 she’d scraped together doing odd jobs in the neighborhood to buy herself a my little pony backpack. He’d used the money to spend an afternoon at the arcade and she’d cried until her eyes practically crusted shut.  
  
“Good,” he pats her shoulder, “it’s north of here. Right on the border between us and Canada. A string of perfectly habitable islands.”  
  
She nods along, giving him a gentle smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. One he returns. She’s seen that kind of smile before. The thankful kind. The kind parents used to give her when she’d give their toddlers stitches and lollipops. The kind that spouses gave her when she’d stabilize their significant other after an accident. A smile of gratitude.  
  
“Now let me tell you about knives,” his grin grows exceptionally bigger.  
  
She should feel bad she’s barely listening to him. For all his hard edges he’s trying. Trying to connect with her. To build a relationship. To mend familial ties he didn’t know about just like she didn’t.  
  
It’s just hard to peel back the layers she’d wrapped herself in. Hard to let anyone get at her soft center, the one she protects with fierce determination. She’d spent decades building up her walls. Decades planting a minefield around the fortress of her heart, all in an attempt to protect herself from those who’d break it. Family, friends … they always left. It’s better to be closed off and whole, than open and broken hearted.  
  
So she smiles and nods, tilts her head in feigned interest and listens to him rattle off the ideal collection of knives every survivor needs on their person.

  
  


↪️

  
  


The sun is beginning to set as she navigates down 12 past a little town called Clayton. The thread of hope she’d fostered is amplified by her brisk morning bath and the even brisker air circulating through the open window. By the finality of her journey and her ever growing proximity.  
  
She’d lost a lot of time navigating around a pile up. Mangled heaps of metal spanning across most lanes of traffic and blocking her view. She’d driven on the grassy divide and managed, but it had cost her dearly in terms of daylight and nerves.  
  
There’s a lopsided sign that announces there’s a marina up ahead, but a marina and a population count means potentially infected bodies and she’s not willing to risk it. Not this close to their destination. Not this late in the day.   
  
She swallows down her disappointment and drives further up 12 instead, letting the road curve alongside the St. Lawrence. Keeping the water of the river to her left and an eye out for a potential boat dock or lookout of sorts. An abandoned pier or beach or … anything, really. A secluded spot she’d be able to pull into and assess what she’s up against.  
  
A few miles down the country road lined sporadically by tiny shacks, she sees what appears to be a nondescript residential road leading right up to the water’s edge.   
  
She turns down the road on a hunch, a prickling at the back of her mind that tells her it’s a good avenue to explore considering the sun’s begun to set.  
  
Rey drives slowly, eyes lingering on each bungalow. Taking in their various states of disrepair. This one with a broken window, that one’s front door wide open. Calculating the distance between the houses and likelihood of infected bodies lurking in their shadows.   
  
These would have been nice homes at one time. The kind you settle down in and start a family. The kind you make pancakes for Sunday morning breakfast in. Where weekends are spent at farmer’s markets and maybe fishing by the river. The kind where kids grew up with the same friends all their lives.  
  
The car rolls silently along with its trailer in tow. A lazy, idling sort of roll while their little pack keeps their eyes and ears perked for any signs of danger.  
  
Up ahead, the road ends in a roundabout by the water, land having seemed to come to a point jutting out into the water’s edge. A tall industrial sized boat house sits idly by the edge, surrounded by an empty gravel parking lot. Beyond, the St. Lawrence stretches endlessly. An expanse of deep blue water flecked with islands, little tufts of green with rocky shores.   
  
With the exception of one, that is. One massive island looms just shy of a mile out. It spans so far it blocks the majority of her view, affording her depth of perception only past its points at the far ends. It blots out the river and severely hinders her ability to make a decision on what her next course of action should be.   
  
_That can’t be the one_ , she thinks. Firstly, the coincidence would be too great. She hasn’t turned the page on Sheev’s instructions to find out just where she goes from here, but _this_ island strikes her as _too_ big _._ Sheev wouldn’t set up camp on something that big. It’s too ostentatious, even for him. It would be a nuisance to fortify and protect efficiently. Secondly, it’s too close to shore. Not enough time to prepare for an assault _if_ you managed to see it coming on that monstrosity.   
  
But she also can’t help staring at it. The sheer size of it, almost a mile long and God knows how wide. The way it blocks her view. Rey’s never seen anything like it.  
  
She can’t take the chance to camp out on this island overnight, even though the dogs would protect her. Over there she wouldn’t have the safety of her trailer or the car. A shitty tent won’t protect her from infected bodies or hungry animals. Let alone the fact that she’s never actually assembled one by herself or that it’s too late in the day to attempt such a feat.   
  
The simple fact is, she needs to get around it to see if there’s somewhere else. Somewhere closer she can stay until she figures out the rest. Until she figures out which one her grandfather intended her to find.  
  
She should probably venture further along the water’s edge. Find another dock or keep an eye out for an abandoned boat.   
  
Maybe she can stay here overnight? There’s got to be a way into that boathouse. If it’s big enough inside, she could pull the car and trailer in, secure it and spend the night inside its confines. In fact, it could make a safe place to keep the car if her intended destination _does_ happen to be an island nearby.  
  
Unclipping the seatbelt, she checks her mirrors to ensure she’s alone and gets out of the car, letting the dogs barrel over the center console behind her. Toeing forward towards the edge of the lot carefully, hand on her hip within reach of the glock if need be. Taking in breaths of the fresh watery air, she closes her eyes and just breathes. Lets the musky air fill her lungs. Algae and fish and nurturing water mingle in her nose and soothe her senses.  
  
She listens to the soothing sounds of lapping water, the gurgle beneath the docks, the squawking of seagulls in the distance. She listens to the sound of safety.   
  
She’s close. _So close_ to her final destination she can almost taste it. It makes her _almost_ smile.  
  
Remus whines at her side, a distracting tiny thing. The sound of impatience. A silent question, a request to go relieve himself. Even though he’s a self-serving little shit, he won’t venture too far, and the nearest patch of grass is far enough away to warrant asking permission.  
  
“Go ahead, baby,” she pets his head, “you too Rom.”  
  
The boys trot over to the grass. Remus relieving himself while Romulus keeps watch, only to switch positions once all is said and done. Though Remus’ watch consists of kicking up a tuft of grass and snow plowing himself through the grass. Frolicking without a care in the world while his brother decides _his_ scent needs to dominate and relieves himself directly over Remus’ droppings.  
  
She stands there, hands on her hips and eyes trained on the large island, considering her next steps and best course of action.  
  
If it was earlier in the day, she could have looked for a boat. Something to hop into and paddle around the island. At least to one of its tips so she can get a better look at what’s beyond. For now, what she desperately needs is somewhere safe to spend the night. Somewhere to catch a few hours of rest so she can figure it all out tomorrow.   
  
She _should_ try to get into the boat house. It’s the best plausible shelter for the night given her surroundings. Then again, that _could_ be dangerous. Who knows what’s in there. And with no windows to speak of, nothing to give her a glimpse of what’s inside, she’d be going in blind. What if it’s stacked full of boxes or junk and she can’t find the space for the trailer? What if there’s infected bodies inside? What if she unleashes a whole horde stuck in there?  
  
She also can’t stay out here. Maybe if she pulls the car into one of the backyards of the houses?   
  
That idea gives her the chills. It’s too open. Too many unknown variables. Too many things that could go wrong. She hasn’t even had a chance to scout out the houses to make sure they’re safe.   
  
Rey’s eyes turn back towards the large island blocking her view. Like it’ll magically grow legs and sashay downriver to free her line of sight. Like it holds an answer if only she stares at it hard enough. Its presence an ever growing nuisance. The reason she’s starting to build a tension headache from squinting. Or thinking. Maybe she’s just tired.  
  
She sighs.  
  
That’s when she sees it. A shape in the water moving against the current. A large log cutting diagonally from the big island straight towards the shore.  
  
At first she squints her eyes, trying to figure out what it could possibly be. Floating particles travel _with_ the river’s current, not against it. They certainly don’t cut diagonally on a very specific trajectory.  
  
Then cold dread settles in her veins. Because it’s not a log. It’s a canoe of sorts with what looks to be a person inside. Her breath hitches in her throat and she toes back slowly until her back hits the trailer.  
  
With shaky fingers she unlatches the door and stumbles inside, grabs for her shotgun before tripping down the stairs and back out. She toes her way across the lot, keeping her eye trained on the approaching canoe. A short whistle to get the dogs attention. They sprint to her side in the blink of an eye. Attentive. Attuned. At the ready.  
  
The canoe draws closer still and she sees it aim for the dock beside the boathouse. A dock that’s surprisingly well maintained, now that she considers her surroundings more carefully.   
  
It’s a large canoe, she notes as it approaches. Long. 16 feet if she were to guess. The operator, too, appears to be large based on the way their hands dwarf the paddle and swallow the room at the center of the canoe.  
  
She slides her feet across the gravel, shifting her body until the dock is clear in sight. That _must_ be where this person is headed. Her hand rises to secure her scarf around her mouth and nose before settling back around the forearm of the shotgun. Romulus and Remus’ heads have locked on the moving object. Synchronized to her alertness. She hoists the shotgun up, braces her shoulder and prepares herself to take the shot. Locked, loaded, ready.  
  
Time seems to trickle in slow motion. Dread and fear, anticipation and horror. Her heart thuds against her rib cage and her finger shakes against the trigger.  
  
The canoe disappears by the shore as it lines up with the dock. A rope is slung around a post to secure it before the operator clambers out. Hunched over until … _he_ isn’t. Unfurling to _his_ full frame and suddenly taking up too much room in the _too_ open space.  
  
He’s tall. Devastatingly tall and large. Barrel chested with thick, corded forearms and thighs the size of tree trunks. In fact, from the distance he looks to be built like one of those sequoias she’d seen in California. That one time she’d afforded herself a (yurting) vacation with her pot smoking philosophy majoring roommate in undergrad, Ahsoka.  
  
He’s wearing well-worn jeans and the thickest, biggest, faded red flannel she’s ever seen slung over what looks like a surprisingly clean black henley. His face is mostly covered by a black bandana he’s tied over his nose and mouth. Long soft-black hair falling in waves to his shoulders and blowing with the breeze across his forehead.  
  
But what gets her, what _really_ gives her pause is his eyes. In the late afternoon sun they’re the most perfect shade of warmed amber, irises perfectly intact. She wonders, as she lets her hold on the shotgun waver, if he’s got flecks of green in there. Little sunburst striations like beacons to his very soul. Like the eyes in her dreams.  
  
The closer he steps, the clearer it becomes he’s _not_ infected. He’s as human, as _alive_ and unspoiled as she is. That makes him both a welcome discovery and a dangerous one.  
  
He’s very slowly pulling the corner of his flannel up to show her his holster. The grip of his handgun clearly visible at his hip. A large serrated hunting knife, similar to the two she’s got tucked next to her thigh, peeks its handle from beside the gun.  
  
It’s a warning.   
  
It’s a test.  
  
“Don’t come any closer,” she shouts across the gravel. Loud enough to send a flock of birds flying.  
  
He freezes completely. Eyes tracking up to watch the birds fly and sighing deeply. She might have sighed too, being in his position. It would have been the perfect opportunity to take out a bird for dinner if her aim was better. But they’re having a standoff. Two beings, alive and well, unsure of the other’s intentions. Unsure whether to trust when the word had all but lost meaning. When it’s been put through a spin cycle and come out tattered, discoloured. A shrunken, warped version of itself.  
  
His hands, which had been moving with slow but tightly wound precision, relax at his sides. His back straightens, eyes dropping down to look at her boys who haven’t growled nor barked strangely enough. His head cocks to the side as his eyes trail back to hers, skewer her own with an intensity that sets her heart into a gallop.  
  
He raises his hands up in the air. Calm and loose. There’s no threat in his movements, only acquiescence. Bringing one to his face to pull down the scarf and expose the rest of his face.  
  
He has the nose of a Greek god. The plush lips of one too. If she were to place his looks, he’d be a cross between Apollo and Hades. At least based on how she’d imagined them as a child. Few day old scruff covering his chiselled jaw and accentuating the tilt of his mouth.  
  
And then he speaks. The deep baritone voice piercing through her. Infusing every cell in her body and rebuilding its genetic makeup.  
  
“You’re not infected, are you?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drum roll please*
> 
> I give you one post-apocalypse Ben.
> 
> How do you think it's gonna go?


	5. She Dreams of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His eyes drop down to the dogs again. First to Romulus, stoically protecting his mother, then Remus whose tail begins to wag despite her earlier warning. The man crouches down, squatting wide and opens his palms._
> 
> _It strikes her that even though he’s curled in on himself, he’s still massive. Even hunched like this. He looks like an immovable boulder. If he wanted to take her … if he wanted to snatch her for personal use or steal her car, she’d be no match. At least the boys would be able to get a few good bites in but she might lose one if not both in the scuffle to get away._
> 
> _To her dismay, her traitorous baby (who she’s busy worrying about) takes the open invitation and runs straight to him._
> 
> _A scream begins to build in her chest. A warning that no, it’s not safe, come back, before she sees the man reach out and scratch Remus behind the ear. Happy whoofs, happy whines, a lolling tongue and all. And the man? He’s smiling. No, laughing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute, huh?
> 
>  _Sensitive subject matters & topics included in this chapter:_  
> \- General anxiety over confronting another human  
> \- Considerations of being taken captive/robbed  
> \- Mention of a dead body

“Neither are you,” she stammers, “infected ... ‘mean. I … you’re not infected either.”  
  
 _Nice. Good going Rey. First human you speak to and_ that’s _how it goes.  
  
_ It doesn’t help that he’s devastatingly handsome. Like a wrecking ball straight to her lexicon. It’s hard enough to breathe. To _think_ confronted with the first whole human she’d seen in over a year. Add in the attractive factor and she never stood a chance.  
  
He takes another step forward. Slow and calculated, like he’s approaching a feral animal. How is he so confident? How is he so comfortable with another human when she hadn’t seen one since…  
  
“Where did you come from?”  
  
Of all the questions to ask, she doesn’t expect _that._ So she stays quiet. Adjusts her shotgun so the butt rests against the curve of her shoulder more easily. A warning that even though he may be comfortable enough, she certainly isn’t. That she’s still _very much_ pointing a loaded shotgun between his eyes should he decide to try anything stupid.  
  
He stops, arms extended out and open. Palms forward in an effort to appear harmless.  
  
It could be a ruse.  
  
“I haven’t seen a new person in,” he exhales gruffly, stuffs his hands into his pockets ever so casually, “shit, a year? Maybe more?”  
  
 _A_ new _person?  
  
_ _How_ is he so comfortable? How is he acting so … normal?  
  
Remus whines at her side. A cry that she hasn’t heard since… well before all this happened. It reminds her of when he’d want to go greet the walker at the door. Of when he’d be excited to see a friend. A whine that has no place in the face of potential danger.  
  
“Watertown,” she lies, quickly throwing Remus a _tsssst_ to keep him in line.  
  
“Watertown? That’s… damn that’s far.”  
  
 _Far? You don’t know the half if you consider_ that _far.  
  
_ “Did… are you headed somewhere?”  
  
 _An island, somewhere. I’m not sure yet.  
  
_ “Yes,” she lies again. She doesn’t actually know where she’s going. Only that she needs somewhere to rest for the night and this place is now out of the question.  
  
She needs to get back in the car. Needs to get back on the road and travel a long way down 12. As far as the remnants of daylight will carry her. Somewhere he can’t reach on foot. Find another marina or dock or something away from this man. Shit, she’ll sleep at the side of the road if she can find an open enough field where she’d get good visuals on her surroundings. It wouldn’t be covered but it would be safer than here. Because _here_ is not safe anymore. Not now that she’s come face to face with this giant.   
  
And she needs to get going _now_ because any later and she’d have to use her headlights. That would just _draw_ attention. The opposite of what she’s trying to achieve.  
  
She can feel her heart hammering in her chest. The predicament this man is putting her in makes her insides squeeze. A sharp pain building in her chest like her heart is on the verge of exploding. It’s not safe. She needs to get away. There’s nowhere to run.  
  
His eyes drop down to the dogs again. First to Romulus, stoically protecting his mother, then Remus whose tail begins to wag despite her earlier warning. The man crouches down, squatting wide and opens his palms.  
  
It strikes her that even though he’s curled in on himself, he’s still massive. Even hunched like this. He looks like an immovable boulder. If he wanted to take her … if he wanted to snatch her for personal use or steal her car, she’d be no match. At least the boys would be able to get a few good bites in but she might lose one if not both in the scuffle to get away.  
  
To her dismay, her traitorous baby (who she’s busy worrying about) takes the open invitation and runs straight to him.  
  
A scream begins to build in her chest. A warning that _no, it’s not safe, come back_ , before she sees the man reach out and scratch Remus behind the ear. Happy whoofs, happy whines, a lolling tongue and all. And the man? He’s smiling. No, _laughing_.  
  
Damn if his laugh isn’t beautiful. It’s deep and sonorous. Vibrates its way across the too open space and straight through her body to shake loose the agitation that’s wound her in knots. To remind her again of what it’s like to be human. To feel light hearted. To laugh.   
  
It’s a shock to the system to see so much humanity in the span of a few seconds. Like being dunked in a tank of ice water straight out of a warm bed.  
  
His smile is dimpled. Gives her a peek at slightly crooked teeth and crinkled eyes. Something that tells her he’s older than her, but not by much. Stirs something inside herself that wants to let loose and join in the laughter. It’s a sound she’s missed, if she’s being honest. A sound of the past.  
  
 _Those eyes.  
  
_ “I’m Ben,” he finally offers once Remus has completely surrendered to pets from massive hands, sprawled on his back and panting happily. This stranger, this _Ben,_ who’s liberally peppering _her_ baby’s belly with scratches. Romulus gives a small whine of his own, paws padding the gravel anxiously and she feels utterly abandoned.   
  
Her boys, her companions, her _children_ turn against her at the drop of a hat. At a pleasant smile and the promise of some (ok, they look pretty satisfying if Remus’ face is anything to go by) scratches. She releases another _tssst_ , tilting her head towards her second in command. Eyes never leaving this … _Ben_. And Romulus? With an angry yawn, he plants his butt firmly against her calf, allowing her to feel the pent up energy radiating off his body.  
  
“I haven’t seen a dog in ages,” the man, the _Ben,_ starts again between scratches, “fuckin’ miss them.”  
  
 _How is he acting so normal?!  
  
_ Romulus whines again. A pathetic whimper of a sound he hasn’t made since he was a pup. Him. The alpha dog who accepts being her beta but attempts to wrestle for position when he’s feeling defiant. The dog who stoically watches over his pack like _he’s_ in charge. The dog whose attention never strays from his mother. That’s the dog who’s been reduced to whimpering for a few scratches.   
  
She begins to roll her eyes at the sudden coup and that’s all it apparently takes for him to break his concentration and join his brother by the man’s, _Ben’s,_ side.   
  
With a frustrated growl, she relents, lowering her shotgun.  
  
“That’s Remus,” she nods towards the traitor and using her free hand to pull down her scarf, “other one’s Romulus. They’re brothers.”  
  
There’s a series of content yips, a whirlwind of ‘good boys’ and ‘hello puppies’, a lot of scratches and even more laughter. One dog tucked into his armpit and the other nuzzling his knees, the man, _Ben,_ barks out a loud, joyful laugh. It strikes her that it’s not just the boys who’ve surrendered to this boisterous greeting, but _Ben,_ too. Like he needed the contact just as much as the boys did.  
  
She feels guilty. Having been so wrapped up in surviving she’s given them the bare minimum in terms of love. The definition having shifted at some point from snuggles and walks, treats and romps in off-leash dog parks to simply surviving and keeping them alive. And that’s hardly living.  
  
The man’s, _Ben’s_ , eyes glide up to meet hers again.  
  
“And you?”  
  
Does she open up? After all this time alone, can she trust another person? What if he plans on taking her for a slave? What if he plans on murdering her? Raping her? Stealing her weapons or her car? Her food? Her supplies? There’s no government in place. No police. No one to save her with the exception of her dogs whose judgement is clearly muddled.  
  
 _A leap of faith, perhaps.  
  
_ “Rey.”  
  
A beat of silence. A radiant grin. “Nice to meet you, Rey.”  
  
 _Again, how is he acting so … normal?_   
  
“I was on the big island there,” his head jerks back in the direction of said island, “scavenging for supplies when you pulled up. Imagine my surprises when I see a damn _car._ Had to investigate despite my better judgement.”  
  
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t know what to say. Or maybe speech has become something that doesn’t come easy anymore. After being alone for so long, after growing accustomed to a diet of hand signals and one-sided conversations directed at her pups, it’s hard to _converse_. To hold discourse with a human and have to process questions, formulate answers.   
  
“It’s getting late,” he starts again, “are you… do you have somewhere safe to spend the night?”  
  
 _I’m not telling you anything.  
  
_ “We have a settlement on the other side of the big one,” his head jerks back in the same direction, “bunch of us working together. It’s a small island but it’s safe. I know you’re headed somewhere but ... if you need a safe place to spend the night, you’d be more than welcome. We can provide you and the puppies with a bed and a warm meal.”  
  
 _We? Bunch? Us? As in … multiple people?  
  
_ “I… can’t.”  
  
“Understood,” he nods standing up. He’s too tall. Too dangerous despite the nice smile and familiar eyes. She can’t risk it even if the prospect sounds like a welcome distraction. One she could use, frankly.  
  
“You can spend the night here. The whole place is rigged so you’d be safe.”  
  
 _Rigged?  
  
_ “Rigged?”  
  
“Yeah,” his hand sweeps across the parking lot, “we installed motion detectors around the dock. Use it to get to the mainland to hunt, scavenge… so it’s important for us to keep it secure,” he trails off.  
  
She wants to press him. Wants to know more about these other survivors. This settlement. This rigging. But her voice fails her, already hoarse from too much use in the span of minutes.  
  
“I can give you this,” he slowly lifts up his flannel to show her what looks like a radio of some sort.  
  
“It's a two-way. Keeps us in range for quite a bit so we can communicate. We can send word if we see any movement nearby. Just… I… if I give this to you, please leave it on the dock before you leave?”  
  
She blinks at him dumbfounded.   
  
All this time she’d barely survived. Eeked out a scrap of a life alone with her pups while there was a cluster of survivors? People means sharing the burden of survival. People means with every additional adult body, the weight of tomorrow is halved. The possibility sends her mind reeling.  
  
Teetering between the need to laugh hysterically and break into tears. Her body vibrates under the pressure to keep steady. The pressure to formulate an answer. A sentence. A _fucking_ word.  
  
His head tilts and if she didn’t know any better she’d assume the gesture was one of worry.  
  
“Hey,” he starts softly, “a-are you alright? Do you need water? Food? I… I have a canteen in the canoe and some deer jerky, just… don’t shoot, alright?”  
  
 _No_ she’s not alright. She’s on the verge of a complete meltdown in front of a (possibly dangerous) stranger. Even if he’d given her his name, what does it matter now? Who’d care? Who’d do anything to help her if he attacked?   
  
Sure, there are _others_ but they belong to him. This Ben. She doesn’t know what his motives are. Doesn’t know if it’s just a bunch of men and she’s the first woman he’s found. What if they’re frothing at the mouth right now wondering when they’ll get to use a warm body to get their rocks off? She’d be that warm body and there’d be nothing she could do.  
  
All this time she’d worried about being infected. Worried about staying away from bodies whose purpose was to spread whatever the fuck _it_ was. But those were predictable. Slow and easy to pick off if you were attentive enough. You never worried about their motives. The truth is, the greatest danger _now_ is others like her. Others who have managed to survive.  
  
They’ve found themselves in a new world without order. Without law enforcement and rules. The worst of humanity can bubble to the surface here and there’d be no barriers to keep it in check. No police or prisons, no court systems and laws to protect your property and personhood.  
  
 _Others_ are now the greatest danger and the sweetest release. Because _others_ like her would mean safety. It would mean relief from living with the constant threat that each breath will be her last. That tomorrow won’t come. That her life has an expiry date just around the bend of the next sunset.  
  
But _others_ can also smile disarmingly while taking a life. They have the capacity to willingly inflict cruelty and go about it in unpredictable ways.  
  
She should pull the trigger.   
  
He walks backwards carefully, eyes never leaving hers and arms extended upward. Trusting his life into her twitching hands. Remus whoofs playfully, Romulus (another fucking traitor) wags his muscular rump and follows. It’s that odd waddle he walks with when she’s holding treats and he happily complies to her whims.  
  
This… _Ben_ crouches down and sifts around the bottom of the canoe while Romulus gives his muscular rear a good sniff. Hands moving below what looks like a tarp. Her heartbeat quickens worried he’ll pull a gun and this friendly ‘banter’ will shatter in the blink of an eye.   
  
She lines the shotgun up with her shoulder, braces herself again in case of danger and focuses her aim on his head. Ignoring the way his hair cascades over his cheeks or the way his brows furrow as he collects whatever he’s looking for.  
  
Only, to her surprise, he pulls out an aluminum water bottle and what looks like a lunchbox. He holds them up and out, each item pinched between his thumb and forefinger, the remaining fingers splayed wide to show her he’s hiding nothing.  
  
What did she _do_ to deserve this open kindness? This pure and unspoilt generosity borne from the very root of human nature long forgotten. Buried under heaps of deformed infected bodies and violence in the name of survival.  
  
He takes a few steps forward, closer now than he’d been before, only a handful of feet between them. Gingerly, he places the items on the ground then starts to retreat again, adding more distance. Like he understands her uncertainty. Like he’s doing everything in his power to make her comfortable.  
  
 _Like he’s baiting an animal to trap.  
  
_ She crouches down, reaches out with shaky fingers to pick up the lunchbox. It’s soft and mushy, covered in a goofy Spongebob print. Childish. An explosion of unnatural colour when she’d grown used to the muted greens and browns of nature. When she unzips it she finds a handful of crabapples and long aromatic strips of jerky.  
  
She glances up at him and his eyes are soft. Too soft to be those of a predator. Too soft to belong to someone with ulterior motives.  
  
Her heart thrums a heavy rhythm against her rib cage as she picks up a strip of jerky, sniffs it like she could detect the lingering scent of danger. Like she’s a bloodhound who can pick up the trace scents of poisons. She chances a glance up only to find he's squatting down with the boys again, scratching behind their ears and watching her.  
  
He gives her the smallest nod, Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s safe, I promise,” he gestures, “can prove it… if you’d like.”  
  
She scurries back as he reaches forward, grabs one himself and bites down. Ripping off a chunk and chewing. Swallowing. Opening his (ridiculously large) mouth and shifting his tongue to show her he isn’t hiding it.   
  
They remain that way for a few minutes. Minutes that feel like hours. Because the internal battle she’s fighting has churned to become an all out war. The need for self preservation raging against her want of normalcy. For companionship with her own kind.  
  
Then, her stomach rumbles loudly.  
  
 _Maybe it’s okay to trust.  
  
_ _Another leap of faith._

  
  


↩️

  
  


Of course her Hyundai decided to break down in the middle of the night. In the middle of nowhere to boot. With a full tank her check engine light decided it was the perfect time to start blinking up a storm minutes before clanking sounds began to resonate inside the cabin and the RPMs dropped down to zero. The car rolling along at continually decreased speed until she maneuvered it onto the shoulder and put it into park.  
  
She’d panicked, of course. Her first instinct was to call her insurance company but thought better of it. He’s expecting her. Maybe he knows what to do.  
  
It’s a new feeling, having someone to depend on. All her life she’d had to figure things out on her own. Pull up her big girl pants and place inquiry calls, invest hours into online research, sponge up as much knowledge as humanly possible before stripping away the husks to only leave the kernels she needed.   
  
Depending on another person is something she’s not prepared to do. Won’t ever be prepared to do, she thinks. It’s better if she depends on only herself, because she’ll never let herself down.   
  
Right now, though, it’s nice to know she has someone, _anyone,_ to call who’d give a shit. Someone who’d know what to do.  
  
The line connects.  
  
“Rey,” her grandfather’s raspy voice, “where are you?”  
  
“Sheev…” she gasps, “m-my car broke down.”  
  
“Fuck,” a long gurgled sigh, “where are you?”  
  
“Hold on,” she navigates to her home screen to pull up the map. The pin places her about 60 miles out from his estate. Caught in an open stretch of road flanked by cornfields and zero lights. Zero houses. “I’m sending you my location.”  
  
“Shit, you know I don’t know how…” a ping goes off, “oh, I see how that works. Okay.”  
  
There’s rustling on the line, like he’s shifting blankets or pillows. Outside a car passes in the opposite direction, headlights blinding before disappearing behind leaving her drenched in darkness minus the faint glow of the dashboard lights.  
  
“Do you have water? Is the car locked up?”  
  
“Yes,” she breathes.  
  
“You have all your stuff with you, right?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And the dogs? They’re with you as well?” He never calls them anything sweet. Never calls them the boys, or the kids, or the pups. It’s either ‘the dogs’ or their given names. Clinical.  
  
“Sleeping in the back,” she offers tightly.  
  
“Okay. That’s good. I’ll have someone come get you. Sending a truck. Look for a red GMC Sierra. New York license plate. The man’s name is Enric.”  
  
“Enric,” she parrots anxiously. Focusing on breathing to keep her tone steady and not betray her overwhelming nervousness.  
  
“Rey?”  
  
“Yes, Sheev?” Even when he’s coming to her rescue, she can’t call him anything but his name. It would feel wrong, even now that she’s feeling a shred of gratefulness, she can’t find it in her to say the word _grandpa.  
  
_ “This is important,” his voice sounds closer, ominous and dark. There’s a long silence, like he’s waiting for her world to melt away. Waiting for her to tunnel all her attention into his words, " _trust no one._ ”  
  
She nods to herself. Eyes filled with unshed tears and lip quivering.   
  
_Trust no one.  
  
_ “Except for Enric,” she tries for something light hearted but fails.  
  
“Except for Enric,” he agrees gravely. 

  
  


…

  
  


Enric showed up in 40 minutes. She’d spent the time checking her surroundings and her phone every 30 seconds in the silent confines of the cabin. Only two cars passed in the span of what felt like a lifetime under a moonless sky.   
  
She’d barely touched her water, afraid of having to face the endless darkness outside to relieve herself in the fields. Afraid of choosing the wrong moment to do so as a car or a cop passed, leaving her with either an embarrassing story or a public urination ticket.   
  
The dogs slept in the backseat, faces pressed together while she drummed the tune of one song or another against the steering wheel to pass the time. She’d turned the car off to preserve battery, cracking a window open a sliver for air and burrowing into her oversized cardigan for warmth.  
  
Enric was an older man. Not as old as her grandfather, but certainly up there in age. His hairline was receding and his face was set in a permanent scowl. He was quiet and methodical about helping her load her things into the truck. Offering neither advice or commentary on her chosen cargo.  
  
Everytime the man reached up to drop a bag or box into the bed of the truck she caught a glimpse of a gun attached to his hip. Everytime it did the exact opposite of making her feel safe. A prickle down the back of her neck alerting her to danger.  
  
They’d just managed to load up the boys into the cab of the truck when Romulus started barking towards the darkened fields to their right. Just as she climbed in behind the dogs and slammed the door, she heard a series of gunshots pierce the air before Enric ran back to the driver side, hopped in and floored the pedal.   
  
The car bumped over something lumpy and as they peeled away in earnest, she saw the shape of a human laying on the road in the side mirror. Rey swallowed the knot in her throat, hugged Remus tightly and focused on breathing.  
  
Enric didn’t say much. Not on the way to her grandfather’s estate. Not for the two weeks he stayed with them.  
  
On the last day she saw him, he’d finally spoken to her.  
  
“Headshot,” he offered cryptically standing in the open front door, “I don’t know much about ‘em, but if you see one, shoot ‘em in the head. It terminates them.”  
  
Her grandfather had sent Enric out to one of his stashes to pick up supplies. To this day she’s not sure exactly what it was Enric was sent out for. They lived in that house with just enough for months after, and yet her grandfather deemed it necessary to send this man into peril for … something.  
  
Enric never did return.  
  
She did see him. Months later on her way north in the late autumn. His red truck in the ditch and his body laying in a pool of caked blood. Bloated and scarred from being exposed to elements for God knows how long.  
  
Rey’s chin quivered as she sped past the scene.   
  
_Trust no one._

  
  


↪️

  
  


The smell of the jerky does it for her, really. It’s tangy and meaty and makes her mouth water. After months of eating unseasoned small game, the promise of venison makes her mouth water. It’s nothing like what she’d done with her deer. That had been butchery at its finest, and that’s putting it kindly. A hack job of overcooked, chewy chunks she’d ended up forcing herself to finish. Bland and flavourless. As painful on the way in as on the way out.  
  
This is different. This awakens her taste buds.  
  
She slips the tip of the strip into her mouth slowly, takes a bite and fights tooth and nail not to let her eyes roll back in delight.   
  
“You’ve been through a lot, huh?”  
  
He’s not looking at her. The question is asked more to Remus’ belly which he’s resumed scratching. His voice is quieter. Calmer.   
  
“Look, I know you’ve got somewhere to be but… you look like you could use… what I’m trying to say is… whatever the fuck happened has left scars on all of us. I know you’re scared but it might help if you met others. If nothing else it might give you a boost. Help you recharge your battery, you know? The strength to continue? Maybe if you heard their stories and if… if you’re up to it, maybe sharing yours.”  
  
He takes a deep breath, eyes resign but not to meet hers. No, they glance over her as if he’s taking in the sky. There’s that shade of amber from her dreams, the same shade that’s been watching her all her life.  
  
“I know you don’t believe me. Hell I wouldn’t either after being alone for… fuck however long it’s been for you. But those of us left, we ought to stick together. We might just be all there is.”  
  
She takes another bite, chews thoughtfully. Romulus trots up to her and nuzzles at her neck. _It’s okay mom,_ he’s saying, _I trust him.  
  
_ Dogs have an innate way of sniffing out danger. Picking up hidden behaviours. They’re not always friendly with everyone. She’s witnessed her share of unwarranted growls on their way to the dog park on weekends. They’ve trusted her all along, maybe … maybe it’s time she trusts them for once.  
  
They didn’t trust her grandfather. Were polite and obedient to him but never this belly presenting kind of trust.  
  
They didn’t trust Enric, always coexisting but never giving him so much as an errant sniff.  
  
And yet this man...  
  
 _One last leap of faith?  
  
_ “I…” she starts around a mouthful of smoked venison jerky, “I can’t leave the car.”  
  
Ben nods as he continues to watch the sky. The river continues to gurgle behind him, the canoe tapping against the post of the dock at regular intervals like the ticking seconds of a clock.  
  
“Agreed,” he says after too many moments, “you can pull it into that storehouse, there.” His hand extends to the boat house she’d been eyeing earlier.  
  
“I can help guide you in. It’s safe to leave the car there… I promise. Motion sensors, remember? If something’s here we’ll know. Plus I can lock it up tight so nothing gets in.”  
  
Rey doesn’t budge. She stands there processing his words and chewing the delicious jerky.   
  
She won’t let this distract her from her mission. Won’t let these survivors pull her under with them. She’s made thus far on her own. Granted she had a little (okay a lot) of help from her grandfather, but she’s used to being alone. It’s safer that way.  
  
People can be both a comfort but they can bring heartache. The pain of loss was too much for her when the world was still in order. Now? It might be the straw that snaps the camel’s back.  
  
Connections have always been hard for her to make. In foster care you learn not to get attached. One moment you have a best friend, the next you’re alone again. One moment you think you have a brother, the next he’s stolen your money. It’s best to guard your heart and build up walls. That way no one can get in and hurt you.   
  
But is what she’s doing living?   
  
She’d like to laugh the way he did with the dogs. Easily.   
  
“Give it a chance. At least you'll be safe one night and you'll get to see how we've set up the island. What've you got to lose?” He says this, again, so easily. Like he hasn’t seen what’s happened to the world. Like he hasn’t seen bodies ooze blood. Like he hasn’t seen mangled corpses and liquefied irises dragging themselves towards you with malice. Like he hasn’t had to take a life, or whatever was left of it anyway.  
  
“Look,” his hands stop scratching Remus’ belly to slowly flip the safety on his gun. He removes it from his holster and holds it towards her by the barrel. A sign of trust.   
  
“I promise I won’t hurt you,” he starts softly, “and if you’re uncomfortable at _any_ point, I bring you back here no questions asked. I’ll let you keep my gun as a sign of good faith until then.”  
  
Rey looks at her dogs. Happy for the first time in God knows how long. She looks at the surrounding clearing — the setting sun, the gentle breeze, the rustling leaves starting to take their autumnal shades. She looks at her car and trailer — her little slice of home. She looks at the river — lapping against the shore and bubbling as its soft waves crash into one another on their way downstream.   
  
She looks at Ben — the man with the amber eyes that look too familiar, the man who’s offering her his protection, who’s offering his weapon. Who’s offering one night of safety and one night of meeting _others._ One night of normalcy before she returns to a bleak existence.  
  
She can do this. She _deserves_ this. And if nothing else, the boys do. She’ll tamp down her own fears for them. Afterall, they’ve been her amplified eyes and ears. They’ve been her security and alarm. And they’re telling her that this is alright.  
  
So just for one night. She can put her fears aside for one night. For them.  
  
“Okay,” she mutters, hand reaching out to grab the handle of his gun.

  
  


…

  
  


There’s a thump on the back of the car.  
  
“Stop. That’s perfect,” Ben’s voice is muffled from the outside. She gets out of the vehicle to double check his guiding skills. Though she may have agreed to meet his fellow survivors, she trusts him about as far as she can throw him. And judging by the sheer size of him, that’s not very far at all.  
  
The car is safely inside the building with room to spare. The inside perimeter is lined with random goods. Furniture and mattresses, blankets, crates of canned foods, building materials and supplies, there’s a shelf full of over the counter medication she’s sure must be expired by now. The faded red label of Tylenol holds her attention a fraction longer as her eyes glide over the collection of supplies.  
  
“This,” she begins, but her voice falters. It’s too rough from disuse.  
  
“It’s our storehouse. So we don’t have to lug things across the water. Saves the arms,” he jokes while patting his biceps. Like he’s explaining that carting all this by boat would be a burden. Like they have _too much_ and need an off-island spot to store their cornucopia.  
  
 _How is he joking right now?  
  
_ “Do you want to grab a few creature comforts?”  
  
 _What?  
  
_ Her eyes shift back to him. He’s standing a few feet away from her, mindful to keep a safe distance. “You know … dog food, toothbrush … pajamas? I don’t,” he runs his hand through his long tousled hair, “I don’t know. Just … things that would make you comfortable. I’m sure we can find you a bed. You don’t need to worry about bedding either. Or uh, hygiene products. We have shampoo and stuff … but we don’t have anything for the pups. And … if there are things that would make you more comfortable...”  
  
“Right,” she mumbles. “Here,” she reaches for her belt and extracts his gun, holding it out to him, “to keep watch while I grab some things.”  
  
Ben nods and she’s briefly transfixed by the open and honest look in his eyes. Transfixed by how his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. By how his chest rises and falls with his breath.  
  
She’s mesmerised by the natural lull of it. Hasn’t seen anything like it since she’d witnessed Sheev take his last.  
  
There’s something in his eyes. Something guarded and afraid. Something that tells her there’s hurt and deep wounds. That there’s walls he’s built to protect himself just like she has and yet … he’s lowered them just a smidge. For her.  
  
“I’ll want it back after,” she warns as she steps into the trailer, catching a ghost of a smile flit across his face.  
  
She hears him mutter “of course,” as she starts rummaging through the trailer.   
  
First she sets aside her knapsack, stuffing a few tins of peas and beans for protein in, followed by her remaining tinfoil of fish, her toothbrush and a change of underthings. She rolls up her pajamas for good measure then stuffs them in as well.  
  
Rifling through cabinets she grabs a collapsible crate and puts the boy’s current bag of food in, their bowls and smushes the blanket off the bed in. It’s for scent, she tells herself. So they don’t freak out about spending the night somewhere foreign.  
  
From the comfort of the trailer she quickly checks her own gun’s magazine (still full), wiggles the strap holding her knives in place (still secure). Then slings her knapsack over her shoulder alongside her shotgun and picks up the crate.  
  
“That’s it?” he asks incredulously.  
  
“You learn to live lean,” she shrugs holding the dog’s crate out to him.  
  
His returning smile does something she never thought she’d experience again. It acts like a catalyst. Setting ablaze a fire within herself that starts to melt the edges of hardened ice she’s been frozen in. The little bit of humanity directed at her starts to chink away at the hardened shell of survival she’s worn for so long.  
  
It feels … nice.   
  
The last time someone smiled at her had been a child whose mother she treated at the hospital. The mother had contracted _it_ and didn’t make it through the night. But she’d brought the little girl a mini cupcake from the staff lounge when she’d come out into the waiting room to update the woman’s husband. She’d delivered the news during a lull … when the woman’s body had stabilized and things were looking up. Two hours later, she was pronounced dead.  
  
Two hours later she’d seen tears in the little girl’s eyes.  
  
Ben chews on his lip in thought, “you ready to go? It’s getting late.”  
  
He’s right. The bright orange hues of sunset had stopped giving the landscape a golden glow. Their surroundings had grown dimmer and if she pricks her ears, she can hear the symphony of evening bugs begin tuning for their nightly song.  
  
Pressing her lips together, she gives him a curt nod.  
  
She watches the muscles ripple under his henley, watches him drop the crate just outside the doors of the ‘warehouse’. Watches him walk back in to lovingly stroke the hood of her car and the emblem before handing over his gun again. Watches him smoothly slide the doors into place, then work the chain and lock through the handles.   
  
He’d told her it would be safe. Now she knows he didn’t lie. Maybe she _can_ extend an ounce of trust?  
  
She follows him onto the dock, watches as he steps into the wobbling canoe. Watches as the vessel sinks a little under the sheer weight of him and wondering if it’ll be able to carry them all.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he grins shyly, “she can handle a lot of weight. Hauled furniture and appliances.”

 _Appliances? As in ... electricity?_

She wants to ask but finds herself struck mute yet again.  
  
Unaware of her confusion, he pats the side of the canoe lovingly to accentuate his point. Reaching up, he grabs the crate and tucks it to the back. His fingers curl around the edge of the dock to pull the canoe closer, one hand looping the rope tighter around the post to bring it flush against the edge.  
  
“Come on boys,” he calls with a smile. Each of her canine traitors wags their butts with too much gusto before practically leaping into his arms. Ben catches them as carefully as if they were his own, keeping his balance in the rocking canoe and placing one down before reaching for the other.  
  
The way they _trust_ him is unfathomable. A complete stranger mere moments ago.  
  
“You ready?” He’s stabilizing the canoe with one hand and holding out his other to offer support. To help her in.  
  
Their eyes meet and there’s that glint of something again. That little lowering of defenses she thinks he doesn’t do often. It’s vulnerable and soft, guarded and hopeful. And underneath it all, there’s a glimmer of fear tainting it all. Like _he’s_ afraid of _her.  
  
_ They say dogs can sense motives. They say that they have a level of social intelligence humans can’t tap into. That they can sniff out fear and sadness. They know when someone has ulterior motives and they know when there’s danger lurking inside the skin of another human.  
  
 _Her_ dogs trust him.  
  
 _She_ should trust him.  
  
He thrusts his open palm towards her a little more. A beckoning of sorts. An offering.  
  
With shaky fingers, she takes his hand and grips it tightly. Lets him guide her down into the boat and helps her settle down on a little perch beside her dogs.   
  
Rey’s seen water. She’s seen rivers and lakes and streams. She’s been on planes and has gone swimming at the local pool plenty.   
  
She’s _never_ been in a boat. So sealegs are something she’s unfamiliar with. It’s unsettling, this loss of control. The way the boat rocks and she can do nothing about it. The way the more she tries to stabilize herself the worse it feels.  
  
“Lean against the rocking but don’t fight it. Keep your body loose and limber,” he offers as he works the rope off the post and pushes off, “and hold onto the sides. It’ll help ground you.”  
  
Ben settles at the front of the canoe. Picks up the wooden paddle and starts maneuvering the vessel in his chosen direction.  
  
“Never been on a boat before?”  
  
He’s not looking back at her. Focused wholly on turning the canoe with its cargo towards the southern end of the island.  
  
“No,” she answers, honestly for once. She watches his arms bulge with the force of pushing the paddle. Watches his back expand with every pull.  
  
Once she gets used to the rocking, she realizes it’s nice out on the water. The further they get from shore the more she feels herself relax. Over there, on the mainland, dangers lurk around every corner. Ones she knows about and ones she has yet to discover. Out here? It’s blue and green and shades of burnt orange. Out here she’s _floating_ .  
  
She releases the side in favour of reaching out to let her hand graze the water. It’s cold and refreshing, splashing up onto her jacket and face as they cut across the short waves. A laugh bubbling in her chest that comes out like a gurgle.  
  
“What’s that?” He chances a quick glance back over his shoulder.  
  
“N-nothing,” she stutters, embarrassed by the sounds she’s making. _Has_ made since he found her in that gravel parking lot.   
  
_God what a way to make a first impression. Though … does it even matter?  
  
_ He tilts his head over his shoulder to look at her, “you nervous?”  
  
“M-maybe,” she answers honestly, again.   
  
There’s something about him. She doesn’t trust him fully. That much she’s sure of. But she trusts him enough. And that’s something. For now.  
  
“Don’t be. It’s perfectly safe, I promise,” he smiles, “let me help get your mind off it. Would you like to hear about our group?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder - Rey's been on her own for a while with only the dogs for companionship. She's weary of others and will need time to warm up to Ben (or others for that matter).
> 
> Do I want them to be entirely smitten and fall into bed? Yes. Do I want this to be realistic? Also yes. So the latter wins.
> 
> ∴ I've updated the tags to include "Slow Burn" cause ... yeah, we're going to work down her walls and unearth his.


	6. She Dreams of Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She should have listened. Really listened instead of drowning him out in favour of … what?_
> 
> _It’s not that she’d planned on tuning him out. It’s not that he was droning. Perhaps she herself was drowning. Or, at least her senses were. Assaulted by all the sounds she’d long learned to ignore in favour of focusing on survival. Only for them to crash in at once and overwhelm her._
> 
> _She’d been busy bathing her senses in the scene unfolding beyond the big island. The vast expanse of the St. Lawrence, the invisible shore she’s sure exists at the far end of the horizon. Blue. Endless placid indigo, soothed by a sprinkling of islands (big and small) to the north, the south, the east…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 years later this baby gets an update.
> 
>  _Sensitive subject matters & topics included in this chapter:_  
> \- **Major CW:** this chapter contains a panic attack in semi-vivid detail  
> \- Thoughts about elderly/children dying (by way of infection)

She had expected many things. A ragtag band of survivors — a bunch of men based on the looks of Ben — maybe a woman or two considering how easily he’d spoken to her. Most of them she’d expected to be of healthy youthful age. In prime adulthood. Because that’s who had the stamina to survive, after all.   
  
The older population would have been one of the first to go, like her grandfather minus the foresight. Or so she’d _assumed_.   
  
That segment of the population notoriously dependent on medications for their various health issues. Fancy grade pharmaceuticals in pretty printed vials and backed by multi-million dollar marketing campaigns. Dispensed at their local pharmacies and covered by their health insurance plans for one chronic disease or another. Chalky vitamins and oil filled gel capsule supplements for their aching joints and deteriorating bodies. All things that had to have become both hard to get and in short supply as the world around them devolved into chaos.  
  
Children, she assumed would have gone second.   
  
Parents clinging to their tiny bodies and trying their best to tug them along in a bid for safety. Protecting their offspring with the fortitude of ancient instinct. Only, wailing mouths and scared wimpers would be dead giveaways, like ringing the dinner bell. So she assumes those with young children would have been found by the infected early on.   
  
She also didn’t think their fragile bodies could physically survive the initial onslaught of _it_. At least that’s what she’d convinced herself of since none of the infected she’d seen were younger than adolescents. An assumption steeped in observations and the little first hand experience she clings to from her last days in emerg.  
  
Then there’s the living arrangements. She’d been quite lucky thus far. Her early days spent learning survival tricks on a secluded property. Heavily fortified. Then came the travelling which she (fortunately) got to do in a well-stocked, apocalypse-proof caravan that _included_ a trailer with a bed. Then there was the lucky find of the cabin in the mountains for the winter.  
  
Truth be told, she’d been _very_ fortunate. She imagines that anyone who survived would have been living in a lean-to of sorts. Groups would look like homeless encampments. A mess of pilfered items and any sort of haphazard shelter they could muster.   
  
What confronts her on arrival is quite the opposite.  
  
She should have put the puzzle pieces together based on what Ben was saying. He’d been naming names from the moment he’d started regaling her with tales of the community. Enough names to fill the voyage from shore to shore. Names that filled the distance to the dock they’re now closing in on.  
  
 _Now_ she wishes she’d have listened more carefully.  
  
None of the names had stuck. Paired letters and phonemes that rolled off her back like water. Not a single one permeated her working memory.   
  
Only Ben.   
  
The same Ben who lightheartedly told her about the settlement. The same Ben who switched his paddle from one side of the canoe to the other to glide them smoothly to their destination.  
  
She should have listened. _Really_ listened instead of drowning him out in favour of … what?  
  
It’s not that she’d _planned_ on tuning him out. It’s not that he was droning. Perhaps she herself was drowning. Or, at least her senses were. Assaulted by all the sounds she’d long learned to ignore in favour of focusing on survival. Only for them to crash in at once and overwhelm her.  
  
She’d been busy bathing her senses in the scene unfolding beyond the big island. The vast expanse of the St. Lawrence, the invisible shore she’s sure exists at the far end of the horizon. Blue. Endless placid indigo, soothed by a sprinkling of islands (big and small) to the north, the south, the east…  
  
And then there were the colours of nature. The greens and oranges and yellows and reds of trees she can’t name from a distance. Some look like birch, others (based on their sheer size and blazing colour) definitely maple. Evergreens mottle the endless span of deciduous trees on the tufts of islands. There’s the muddled browns of dry and wet rocks, tiny pebbles, boulders and stones. Some jagged, others smooth. Some darkened by their perpetual state of submersion, others light and dry.  
  
Between the sights and sounds of the river, the content panting of her boys, and the coolness of the water splashing periodically on her outstretched hand, she’d been so focused on _experiencing_ without having to worry about surviving for once, so immersed in the scenery she’d just … forgotten to listen.  
  
It was a new sensation. Or, at least one she hadn’t felt in years. A kind of peace she barely remembers from the old days. Like the stolen moments she’d be able to sit in the hospital’s gardens with a cup of coffee and just breathe. Or the moments she’d watch Romulus and Remus barrel down the hill at the dog park, carefree and tumbling through piles of dried leaves.  
  
Out here the only thing that could hurt her was Ben, and he’d been trustworthy enough. He’d been generous and kind. Thoughtful, understanding and gentle. Despite his foreboding size he’d been nothing shy of utterly cognizant, respecting her hesitance and offering comfortable space. He’d taken her reluctance in stride, offering soothing words and open gestures exactly when she needed it, but never more.  
  
Technically, if he’d planned on taking her or hurting her, he’d already have done so. In the absence of law, there’s no need for elaborate games or building trust with a victim. It’s kill or be killed.   
  
Naturally the lull of his voice became a sort of melody. Her mind so accustomed to silence, tired from straining to interpret his spoken language, it bypassed comprehension. Turned his speech into a lullaby of sorts. Words garbled to become a foreign language. The tone and cadence of his voice creating a rhythm she could _almost_ tap her foot to.  
  
God she wishes she’d listened, now. Even when he’d used that radio and another man’s voice answered. Just for a fraction of a second. Enough for a name other than Ben to permeate.   
  
Especially now that he’s maneuvered the canoe to the southern tip of a sizeable island with a large U-shaped dock where a large rowboat and another canoe tap gently against the poles. The pebbled shore littered with 6 more canoes of various sizes, a few more inside a well worn but equally well maintained shelter.  
  
 _Especially_ now that there’s another man standing on the dock, hands on his hips and dark curly hair blowing in the wind with a big grin on his face. Like Ben, he’s wearing a plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows. Like Ben, he’s wearing a black bandana slung around his neck like a dog after a trip to the groomer. _Unlike_ Ben, he stands with a cocksure posture, like the island belongs to him.  
  
 _Maybe he’s their leader.  
  
_ Below the teeth chattering fear the sight of this man elicits, below the soul crushing terror she feels now that she’s confronted with yet another stranger, lies a sliver of curiosity.   
  
Is he related to Ben? He’s shorter. She can tell that much even if he’s elevated high on the dock. But he’s got the same sort of hair, if not a bit curlier, shorter ... darker. Where Ben’s hair was dark, it had a deep brown sheen that the setting sun amplified while this man’s was purely black. Where Ben was pale, this man was tanned. But they both had the same sort of full lips, the same almost related features. Families don’t have to be identical, resemblance can be a spectrum, right?  
  
“Puppies!”   
  
Like a pavlovian response, the boys automatically start wagging their tails. Little thumps of their nubs and pattering their nails against the metal hull of the canoe. Strangled whines surround her. Upfront, Ben laughs that booming wholesome laugh again.  
  
“You didn’t mention you were bringing puppies,” the man calls out excitedly.   
  
Like her dogs, the man on the dock looks eager to meet them. Hands reaching out and grasping at the air like an overzealous child.   
  
Ben dips the paddle into the water, drops one arm down to the throat and angles the blade against the current to slow the canoe and turn its tip towards the dock.  
  
“That’s Poe,” he murmurs quietly over his shoulder, “the carpenter I told you about, remember?”  
  
“N-no,” she answers honestly, tightly. Fear wicking away any moisture in her throat rendering it dry and unusable.  
  
“That’s alright, I can’t blame you. It’s a _lot_ of names,” he turns to her, eyes calm and understanding, offering nothing but strength. “Listen to the pups, okay? Dogs have a way of sniffing people out. Actually,” he chuckles, “I wouldn’t mind getting their opinion on a few people up there myself.”  
  
Things happen so quickly from there. She feels like she’s watching everything in slow motion as her breaths start coming in short pants.   
  
This new man — _Poe_ — has a rope slung around the tip of the canoe in no time. Helps Ben pull it flush with the dock with practiced ease. Within seconds, the boys leap out of the canoe and onto the dock. Further into this new man’s outstretched arms.  
  
If she wasn’t on the brink of losing her lunch, if she was able to catch a breath, she might have thought it cute. The combined force of her enormous pups knocking the stranger on his ass.   
  
They assault him in tandem. Little whines and sloppy tongues, exaggerated wags and busts of haughty laughter as they roll around on the dock. A mess of limbs and short fur.  
  
All the while she looks on horrified while Ben continues to smile lightheartedly. Unloading the canoe like he’s shrugging his coat and shoes off after a long day. Her _belongings_ slide onto the dock like she doesn’t exist. Like they’re groceries haphazardly dropped onto a kitchen counter.  
  
 _Her_ things on this foreign dock with these foreign people. _Her_ dogs giving love and attention to these foreign people. These _people_ that didn’t exist a day ago. These _people_ that weren’t there for the lonely year she’d spent on her own. Weren’t there for the horrors of surviving on her own with only the dogs as an illusion of safety. Weren’t there to experience what it’s like to sleep with one eye open, sometimes foregoing sleep altogether. Weren’t there for every adrenaline rush and stolen breath when a door creaked or a twig snapped.  
  
It’s thievery. Brazen robbery committed in the amber glow of sunset with a smile and a wink. Her things, her belongings, her _safety_ being swept from under her feet as casually, as callously, as ordering a cup of coffee in the before. _Right under her nose.  
  
_ Bile rises in her throat, thick and bitter. Her mouth pools with saliva and a nervous spike of ice shoots up her spine. Her lungs seize, wanting air but unable to pull. She holds the cold metal sides of the canoe in a death grip, like it’ll help ground her, and it might. Except it doesn’t stop the churning in her stomach. Doesn’t stop the coagulated ball from working its way up her throat, insisting her esophageal sphincter grant passage.  
  
“Shit,” she hears Ben’s voice but can’t see him. Her vision’s gone blurry. Little black spots dancing in the periphery as she struggles for air. Eyes wandering to catch sight of _anything_ but unable to perceive anything but blots of colour.  
  
“Hey, Poe? Have you told anyone yet?” The canoe rocks as her last pillar of safety leaves the confines of the boat. She can hear them talking. The other man, _Poe_ , light and carefree, Ben with a hint of concern. She just can’t make out the words they exchange over the blood pounding in her ears.  
  
Her skin breaks into a cold sweat and her body begins to shake involuntarily. Her grip on the canoe becomes slippery from her clammy hands.  
  
Is this a panic attack? Or is she on the precipice of fainting due to exhaustion? It shouldn’t be possible, she’d just eaten his jerky. She’d drank his water. She’s _stronger_ than this.  
  
She’s had to be. She _will_ be.  
  
Rey’s spent so much time being strong in foster care. So much time wrapping herself in barbed wire and plated armour. Has spent a lifetime fortifying her walls and building a defensive perimeter. One even her grandfather couldn’t penetrate, and he’s family!   
  
How is it that all it took was meeting 2 people after a year of solitude to break down every defense she’s ever built? How is it that 2 friendly enough strangers could undo decades of practiced control?  
  
Before she can work through her symptoms, her sphincter gives way and vomit floods her mouth. She barely manages to fold her body over the edge of the canoe, emptying her stomach directly into the shallow water by the dock. The meagre chunks of jerky, barely digested go first. Then a violent bout of retching releases a new stream of bile. The food now gone leaving only the bitter sting of her gastric brew.  
  
The canoe wobbles harder when a pair of footfalls thud against the hull. A hand falls softly on her shoulder. It’s large, strong. Could crush stone and cradle and egg in equal measures but above all, it’s warm. Nurturing. A kind of grounding she hasn’t felt in what feels like a lifetime.  
  
 _Human_ warmth.  
  
It takes her a moment to gather her bearings. To figure out exactly what’s touching her. _Who_ is touching her.  
  
When the realization dawns, she flinches away immediately. Retreating into herself and away from this person who’s turned her world upside down.  
  
She should have _never_ agreed to get in the boat. To meet the others. Any of it. All of it. It was wrong and it feels like shit and she’s going to hurl again...  
  
“Hey,” he murmurs, “it’s alright. Here, drink some water.”  
  
She feels the cold steel of a canteen slip into her clammy hand.  
  
“You’ll be alright. I promise,” his voice is gentle, like before when he’d tried to placate the skittish animal she’d become, “I know it’s scary. But I’m here. And so are the boys. And if you want to go at any point we’ll go.”  
  
 _There’s no ‘we’,_ she wants to say.   
  
_You owe me nothing. I’m nothing. I’m nobody to you,_ she wants to scream.  
  
Instead she manages to croak pathetically. Lips dry and throat raspy from the acidic burn of her evacuation. She feels the warmth of his hand press against her damp forehead for a split second before it disappears. Feels the canteen pulled out of her weak grasp only for the cold steel to touch her cracked lips.  
  
“Here,” that soft crooning again, “drink. You’re in shock.”  
  
Rey would like to contest that assertion. She’s a doctor for fuck’s sake. By the looks of him, and the way he’d acted around her car, she’d guess he’s a mechanic or something. In another life at least, she’d be the better judge of what a body’s experiencing. Not this boulder of a man, gentle as he may be.  
  
Instead, she takes a tentative gulp, appreciating the way he holds it tilted at just the right angle. Enough to let the water trickle into her parched mouth, not so much that it floods and drips down her chin.  
  
She lets it soothe the bitterness in her mouth. Soothe the burn in her throat. With each consecutive gulp she grows thirstier. Reaching her hands up to grasp the canteen and tilt it further. Inhaling greedy gulps of water and feeling her empty stomach expand. Letting it create a cool, grounding weight in the pit of herself where she’s just evacuated every emotion.  
  
“Hey, slow down.” She feels a nudge at the base of the canteen but shifts away defiantly. Like an infant unwilling to part with their bottle. Fingers curling posessively around the bottle.  
  
“Rey,” his tone turns pleading, “sweetheart, please. Slow down or you’ll make yourself sick again.”  
  
She wants to fix him with a glare. Wants to grab her knife and threaten him with bodily harm if he doesn’t back up. To tell him that she’s not his _sweetheart_ and that he needn’t worry about her. She’s made it this far on her own. He can fuck right off with his soft tones and big body and terms of endearment.  
  
But she says nothing because the water’s too good and every swallow quells the flames in her throat. Continues gulping greedy mouthfuls despite the pain of her throat stretching to accommodate them. Squeezing her eyes shut against the liquid fuzz of her vision.  
  
What gets her to stop is a combination of circumstances all happening at once. For one, her stomach cramps from the influx of water. Her diaphragm spazzes, causing her to hiccup and choke, spitting out a mouthful down her scarf. Her dogs also whine in concert from the dock. Pained little whimpers as though they’re worried. Then there’s the sequoia sitting across from her.  
  
She can’t exactly see him, but now that the pounding in her ears has eased she can hear him breathing heavily. Like he too is on the verge of panic. And then there’s this _feeling_ assaulting her. Like she can sense his concern. Like his worry is a tangible thing like food, water, shelter. Like if she reached out she could grasp it. Turn it over in her hand and feel its weight, its breadth and shape.  
  
Not that she isn’t aware of transference. Emotions have a funny way of doing that, after all. Passing from one person to another in close proximity. Like ripples. She’d learned that with patients long ago. When they were happy it was hard not to smile and laugh along. When they were sad it was impossible not to feel your heart squeeze in your chest.   
  
She’s just never felt it so _viscerally_.   
  
Lowering the canteen hesitantly, she cracks her eyes open and blinks against the darkening sky. Lets them wander but not settle on anything near him. Glimpsing the expectant eyes of the pups, both of their bodies wiggling once their gazes meet, the greenery around her, the wash of colour in the sky...  
  
Rey knows she can’t avoid looking at him, but there’s a shame born from her behaviour. From the way she’d both shrugged him off and stubbornly refused his help. The way she’d all but ignored his attempts at helping her. Because he didn’t owe her anything. He didn’t _have_ to do anything. Could have let her ride it out and figure it out by herself. And yet he did.   
  
With a heavy sigh, she rips off the bandaid. Knowing full well eye contact can’t be avoided forever. Not in the way she’s positioned herself for the evening. She’d agreed to meeting his community and now is docked on a foreign island about to be confronted by God knows how many strangers. This is a conundrum of her own making and she’s going to _have_ to face it.   
  
She turns her head and blinks her vision clear to meet his eyes apologetically.   
  
_Yep. That’s worry alright.  
  
_ Guilt hits extra hard when their eyes connect.  
  
All this time, his only fault was his insistence on being helpful. In a world where other humans were rare and uninfected bodies rarer, he’d gone through the motions anyone would have. Offered the basics when night nipped at their heels.  
  
Perhaps he’d moved her along too fast but how could he not? If she’s being honest with herself, if she just _tries_ to see things from his perspective … his hands were tied the moment they met.  
  
Would she leave behind another human knowing she could offer safety? No.  
  
Would she have shared her rations and tried to help? Yes.  
  
Would she have offered shelter for the night? Yes.  
  
Would she have worried when this other person became physically ill? Yes.  
  
Because deep down inside, despite the overwhelming call to survive, the guilt of leaving another perfectly healthy person behind would have gnawed at her. Would have decimated her conscience until she’d gone mad.  
  
His only fault, really, was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Meeting her could only have caused him distress. Like her, he’d been going through the motions of surviving and she’d interrupted his routine.   
  
_Technically_ he’d been a blessing to her.  
  
 _Technically_ she’s both a burden and a nuisance to him.  
  
If she’s being honest with herself, Rey has _no_ idea where she would have spent the night. The area foreign and daylight hours slipping like sand through fingers. The roundabout had been a poor choice, offering little in terms of protection and too many unknown variables for rest. A dead end. A space that would have left her cornered and vulnerable. Prey ripe for picking.  
  
“Better?” His voice draws her back into the canoe. Away from the gravel lot of their first encounter and back on the shores of this foreign island with other survivors. Somewhere in the recesses of her social brain, she realizes he’s trying for humour.  
  
“Yeah,” she struggles, eyes dropping down to her damp scarf, “sorry … I just—”   
  
“Don’t,” his hand comes up to pause her, “we’ve all gone through a lot. Please don’t feel like you need to explain yourself. You did what you needed to do. That’s all.”  
  
Ben breathes a sigh of relief. A long heaving breath he must have held for longer than she can imagine. His eyes seem to be tracing her face with a hint of sadness. They’re wider, brows dipping low, Adam’s apple bobbing. Like he’s memorizing her features knowing full well she plans on leaving.  
  
Like he knows her intentions before she’s even come to terms with them herself.  
  
Because she _is_ leaving.   
  
With every ounce of strength she regains in the quiet moment they observe one another, she realizes this isn’t healthy. That being here, having such an intense bodily reaction cannot be good for her. That it’s too late for her to reconnect with others. That her future lies in solitude.  
  
And that’s okay, right? She’s made it this far on her own. She has her books and she has an island. Once she gets there, solitude won’t be so bad. It might even be welcome. Besides, she has her dogs. Who better to understand her need for isolation than her babies who were with her every step of the way?  
  
“I…” he starts, more quietly. The emotion that was there quickly shutters, replaced by resolve, “they’re going to feed you. They’ll probably want you to talk to Leia…”  
  
He leans forward just then, calculated but not menacing. A curious tilt to his head and brows that still carry a thread of worry. Reading her body language or … lack thereof. For all his attempts at guarding, she can still see through the slats. See the inner turmoil within. “You didn’t hear anything I told you on the way, did you?”  
  
Her gaze drops back into her lap. Head shaking because, no, she didn’t.   
  
“Leia’s … uh … she’s responsible for all of us, in a way. She keeps track of crops, supplies, rations. She organizes supply runs and housing. Doles out jobs. She’ll be able to find you a place to stay for the night.”  
  
Rey’s heart begins to hammer in her chest. She’s not sure she can handle more. Not sure she has much strength left.   
  
And yet, she has nowhere else to go and 2 pups to care for. She has responsibilities. Though this might be different than choosing a tucked away spot to stay overnight, this isn’t that far off from standard survival.  
  
One task at a time.  
  
One conversation at a time.  
  
She can do this. Just for tonight.  
  
Her eyes drift to her dogs. Their expectant eyes and unwavering trust in her ability to keep them safe. Their loyalty visible in every pant and every ear prick.   
  
_For the boys.  
  
_ “Okay,” she manages quietly. A little braver than before.   
  
“Yeah?” Before he can consider, his hand has already reached out. Closed the gap to rest on her forearm. It’s warm and wide. Engulfs her forearm with just the palm. If he had a mind to, he could curl his fingers and wrap it entirely in his giant grizzly paws.   
  
It’s an anchor. A grounding weight as solid and real as the island she knows is waiting for her.  
  
Yes. Definitely. She can do this.  
  
“Yeah,” her lips twitch more resolute.  
  
She’s scared. Absolutely and utterly terrified of what lies ahead. But it’s the only available route so she’ll take it.   
  
Sometimes surviving is making educated guesses about which path to take when you’re faced with multiple options. Other times, it’s about bracing yourself and standing tall. Swallowing your fears and stepping onto the only available path to face whatever lies ahead.  
  
This is one of those instances.  
  
With every ounce of conviction in her body, she gives him a nod.  
  
Rey never thought she’d see it again. The glitter in someone’s eyes. The look of happiness and joy. The look of hope when a thread is taut enough to give resistance, taut enough to tell you something is there if only you’re patient enough to wait for it. Hope that burns bright enough it could spark results. Even restrained, she can see it there in his eyes.  
  
It feels nice.   
  
And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a 10k word instalment but is getting split in two for both a breather and to let her experiences sink in.
> 
> I want to _validate_ what she's going through. Being alone for so long is bound to have consequences and right now she's being confronted with a _lot_ of things she's had to bury. So this chapter and the next will deal with her first social interactions in a year and ... it'll be rocky. 
> 
> Meanwhile, LOL @ Rey for thinking she's leaving.
> 
> You might also have noticed we now have a chapter count (yay?). It's tentative. The story itself is mapped out to happen in 3 acts and I'm pretty sure 20 is the absolute minimum it'll be, but I figured if you've hopped on this ride it might be helpful to know what to expect. 
> 
> Another chapter will be up soon. A day or 2 max.
> 
> *** If you feel like the CW at the beginning wasn't enough or I've under-tagged, please let me know so I can rectify. I _do_ believe the 'survival angst' tag covers most of the hard hitting elements and I don't intend on including another panic attack, but if you feel something is missing, I'm certainly open to feedback/suggestions.


	7. She Dreams of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ben places his bowl on the bench and kneels beside Remus. Like he already knows her baby is the softer of the two and the best choice for an introduction. He lets Remus sniff his hand, eyes darting up to Temiri with a soft smile before reaching back to scratch behind the dog’s ear._
> 
> _The child follows suit. Kneels beside Ben and reaches his pint-sized hand out to let Remus sniff it. Romulus watches with interest for a few moments before lazing back onto his paws. Rey does too. Watches how small the child looks next to Ben. How small the child looks next to Remus. How fragile and tiny his hands are and yet he shows immense courage among such giants._
> 
> _Remus releases a gentle whoof before flopping down, giving Ben and Temiri a prized view of his roan belly. And just then, a sound Rey never thought she’d hear again fills the air._
> 
> _The sound of a child’s laughter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not gonna go the way you think... or is it?
> 
>  _Sensitive subject matters & topics included in this chapter:_  
> \- Mentions of impostor syndrome  
> \- Reflections on human loss

Venison.  
  
They served her venison stew. Rich and delicious and hearty. With mushrooms, something green (that reminds her of braised spinach) and beans. A roll of bread with a thick crust and surprisingly fluffy insides. Not stale but fresh. A mug of dandelion root tea to wash it down with.   
  
She sits on a weathered park bench by the fire. The others have grouped off and settled at the picnic tables surrounding a firepit in what she can only describe as a square. A central location with a large brick lined firepit, surrounded by a smattering of small cabins. Each of which has working _lights_.  
  
The whole thing still feels surreal. Like she’d stepped out of reality and walked into an open air heritage museum. Except the heritage _this_ museum is paying homage to is the modern world they’ve lost. Like a national park campground meant to simulate living ruggedly but keeping such comforts as electricity.  
  
The path from the water’s edge morphed from tended vegetable gardens to a working area of two pergolas surrounded by sheds and eventually opened up to this central hub surrounded by 8 cabins. Each set back into the trees. Each offering a surprising amount of privacy with the exception of one.  
  
It’s bigger than the others. More austentatious. Centrally placed with a view of the entire square, neatly trimmed bushes out front and windowsill planters spilling greenery in every direction. Ivy growing splendidly up one side like an expensive Tudor in a nicer part of town. A plume of smoke rising out of its chimney stack and warm lights glowing through the lace curtained windows. A wreath of dried hydrangea adds a whimsical touch to the solid wood door.  
  
She wonders how many people live in each cabin.  
  
She wonders which one _Ben_ lives in.  
  
She wanderers just how this whole picture seems so idyllic when she’d barely managed to survive.  
  
Curious eyes peek towards her at intervals while they eat. From every direction. Stolen glances escaping her way during hushed conversations.  
  
They’d all been kind enough to introduce themselves, then give her space. Retreating back after a handshake or courteous nod, a smile and a name.   
  
Well … technically their curiosity didn’t _actually_ wane. She could see the questions zipped behind tight lips and searching eyes. But they did retreat after initial introductions thanks to one sequoia sized shadow she couldn’t seem to shake.  
  
Which she’s thankful for. He’s acting like her personal shield. One that keeps her fears at bay and her anxiety in check. Creating a perimeter of just enough personal space to keep her from running.  
  
Much like her hippie college roommate when she’d felt out of place all those years ago. When she thought every set of eyeballs looking her way _knew_ she didn’t belong. When she felt like an impostor in a world that wasn’t for her. Even if she’d worked twice as hard to get there. Her roommate helped her acclimate, offered her a safe haven. Much like Ben is now.  
  
So she eats quietly and watches. Draws strength from her anchor and reminds herself she deserves to be here just like she deserved to be in college. Just like she deserved to be in Med school. Just like she deserved the residency she’d poured herself into.  
  
She watches her dogs laze at her feet after they’d demolished their bowls of kibble and done the rounds sniffing the others. Watches the flames lick up into the night sky. Watches the flighty eyes of the others gloss over her curiously before dropping back into their bowls. Watches the sequoia eat quietly beside her. His body tense despite being hunched over his stew.  
  
She’s not really sure when he’d decided to be her personal bodyguard. When he’d taken on the role of protective shadow. But she’s eternally grateful for his choice.   
  
He doesn’t prod. Doesn’t try to make small talk or make any further introductions. Just sits there quietly beside her and eats his dinner. Occasionally giving the dogs a pat on the head or nodding towards the man from the dock in silent communication.  
  
 _Poe_. That’s his name. Poe.   
  
Poe is sitting close to another man in a brown leather jacket. Finn (her mind supplies).  
  
Both of them sitting across a very tall blonde woman and two children who look nothing like her. One appears to be on the cusp teenagehood, the other barely reaching double digits. Both have dark hair and eyes, unlike the tall woman whose icy blue ones shimmer in the firelight.   
  
“Phas,” Ben leans in and whispers. Having most likely caught her eyes wander to settle on the blonde Amazon. “The kids are Temiri and Zaya. Brother and sister.”  
  
Rey nods. Eyes dropping back into her own bowl. Ashamed that she’s been caught staring so openly.  
  
She focuses on spooning the hot stew. On enjoying the combination of flavours and the pleasant crunch of the bread’s crust. Wipes down the sides of the bowl to sop up every little bit left clinging to the edges. Listening to the sounds of murmured conversations, occasional bursts of laughter, and the crackling wood in the pit while she empties her bowl, mind wandering.  
  
Aside from the crippling initial panic attack, meeting others hadn’t been so bad. Maybe it was the grounding presence of Ben. Maybe it’s that you can’t erase decades of social conditioning in a year, no matter how devastating. Maybe it was that the first shock had worn off. Not that she hadn’t been petrified when words were spoken directly _to_ her, but looking other humans in the eye had turned out okay.  
  
Like riding a bike. You never quite forget the motions no matter how long a stretch between mounting the steel beasts.  
  
The boys, unlike her, enjoyed the introductions tremendously. Not a single ounce of suspicion was to be found in their bodies. Swinging their butts comically and sniffing hands, legs, feet … any body part their noses could reach. It reminded her of how they’d greet other dogs at the park in the simpler days. She _almost_ smiled on their account.  
  
“Umm,” a tiny voice rings to her right, “excuse me … m-miss Rey?”  
  
Blinking confusedly, she turns towards the sound of her name. A sound she’d grown disused to. A sound she’d only recently refamiliarized herself with, except in a much deeper baritone.   
  
The boy. The little one. _Temiri._ He’s standing just to the right of her at a healthy distance, hands wringing his dirty puffer jacket while his foot slides back and forth in the dirt shyly.  
  
Words are hard to come by so she lifts her brows questioningly at the little human that’s managed to survive.  
  
“C-can I … uh … may I please p-pet your dogs?”  
  
Her mouth opens. Air whooshes in, but no sound comes out. Frozen and pinned in place by this boy’s gleaming eyes and innocence. His mere existence when she’d thought children would have never survived.  
  
How _did_ he survive? How did this little miracle make it this far? Who are his parents? Will the dogs nip at him? They’ve never been around children, at least not that she’s known of though she’s not sure where her dog walker used to take them. What if it’s not safe? What if they turn her away in the middle of the night because the boys hurt this child? What then?  
  
“Sure, Tem,” Ben breaks her racing thoughts, “here do it like this.”  
  
Ben places his bowl on the bench and kneels beside Remus. Like he already knows her baby is the softer of the two and the best choice for an introduction. He lets Remus sniff his hand, eyes darting up to Temiri with a soft smile before reaching back to scratch behind the dog’s ear.  
  
The child follows suit. Kneels beside Ben and reaches his pint-sized hand out to let Remus sniff it. Romulus watches with interest for a few moments before lazing back onto his paws. Rey does too. Watches how small the child looks next to Ben. How small the child looks next to Remus. How fragile and tiny his hands are and yet he shows immense courage among such giants.  
  
Remus releases a gentle whoof before flopping down, giving Ben and Temiri a prized view of his roan belly. And just then, a sound Rey never thought she’d hear again fills the air.   
  
The sound of a child’s laughter.  
  
It hurts. It hits so deep and tugs at her heartstrings so hard she has to look away. Squeeze her eyes shut and avert them lest she cry.   
  
There’s something so perfect, so untainted and pure in a child’s laughter. Like it holds the power to wipe every wrong in this world. Like it’s the cure to every disease. A miracle pill. A ray of sunshine in the dark. A beacon of hope in this desolate landscape.   
  
It’s a sledgehammer is what it is. Wielded with vicious precision against the hardness she’s wrapped herself in. A tinkling laughter that manages to crack the layers of ice she’s ensconced in.   
  
It’s _cruel_ having to hear this. Cruel to be confronted with such purity when she’s grown accustomed to suffering. When her brain has buried the unspoilt memories of neatly trimmed rose bushes in front yards and Sunday afternoon barbecues with friends. Pushing her body and mind to extremes.   
  
Laughter, in the days of aftermath, had become a form of release. Always an expulsion of air and an exercise for her vocal chords but never pure. Never from her diaphragm. There was never joy or glee. Only release.   
  
Not like this boy’s laughter.  
  
Her eyes avert upwards. Into the sky where hundreds of thousands of stars twinkle. Where a grand harvest moon perches regally among them on its upward trajectory. Another ribbon of purity she can’t quite focus on because that too tugs at her heart strings. A calm sort of beauty that doesn’t fit in the chaotic world she lives in.  
  
From there she glances at each table around the fire in turn just to look at _something.  
  
_ At one table sits an older man with grey hair and a serious visage. Another stouter man with dark hair and close set eyes and a young woman with long black hair. Wedge, Snap and Jessica … no Jessika with a K. That’s how she’d introduced herself. Like spelling still mattered.  
  
At another table where a young woman with two twisted buns sits with a fiery haired man, a sickly looking woman with a heart shaped face and tired eyes, and an older woman whose glasses are so thick Rey wonders what her survival odds are should she lose them. Kay, her brain supplies. Kay and … Armistice? Armory? … aah, Armitage. Rose and … Nas? Naz? Maz?  
  
Back to the first table where the man, Poe, and his entourage are grinning in her direction. They’re not looking _at_ her, she realizes, but down to the child and Ben. Down to where her eyes inevitably drift again to see the child laughing and Ben smiling and Remus lolling his tongue as he gets the best belly rubs of his life. Small hands and big hands perusing the expanse of solid muscle and ribs, tickling his armpits and scratching his chest.  
  
It’s too fucking wholesome but there’s nowhere else to look.  
  
So she lets her mind wander while her heart beats double time in her chest. While her eyes begin to water and she tries to keep herself from sobbing.  
  
How many families have been lost to this disease? How many wholesome scenes like this will never get to unfold because their existence was cut short? How many children will never get to giggle this freely? How many men and women will never get to teach their children how to pet a dog or make a paper airplane? How to bake cookies and decorate a Christmas tree?  
  
The sheer magnitude of what’s occurred crashes in. Battering her with the weight of just how much loss has occurred while she was locked away in her grandfather’s estate. In that cabin over the winter. Hiding in ravines and in her car and in her trailer.   
  
People stealing last looks at their loved ones as their bodies were hijacked. Begging them to run, to get away, to save themselves. People running for their lives. Hiding in garages and sheds. Open fields and forest canopies. Spending days fearing for their lives until hunger or thirst drove them into the open where they’d face certain danger. People having to kill their loved ones who’d turned and became a threat or worse, watch their loved ones inflict the final damage...  
  
“Rey?” A short, older woman with a braided crown materializes behind her. Flanked by two tall shadows — one middle aged woman with a pinched expression and a grizzly sort of man who’s taller than her guardian sequoia. “Would you please follow me for a chat?”  
  
Before she’s had the opportunity to consider the request or even dredge up the names of these people, Ben’s stood up. Unfurled to his full size breathing heavily. Gone is the man who smiled softly and taught a little boy how to pet a large dog. Gone is the man who held a water canteen gently and carried the light of hope in the depths of his eyes. Face to face with the small woman he now looks downright menacing.   
  
“We need to sort out accommodations for the night,” the woman continues speaking to Rey, completely unfazed by the lumbering giant who (for the first time since they’ve met) has taken on an intimidating stance.  
  
The silence around them is deafening. Everyone’s stopped chattering, tuned in to the scene unfolding. If it’s possible the crickets have stopped chirping and the fire’s stopped crackling and the water has stopped lapping against the shore. The sound of her heartbeat becomes deafening and she’d like nothing more than to get out.  
  
“Sure,” she manages to croak, “of course.”  
  
“Leia, don’t…” Ben’s booming voice cracks like a gunshot.  
  
“Relax, Ben. It’s just housekeeping,” the woman, _Leia_ , throws over her shoulder. Already turning back towards the austentatious cabin where the front door sits wide open. Where, Rey assumes, she’s had her dinner with the two tall people who materialized alongside her. Where, she also assumes, this conversation is to take place.  
  
“Take the dogs,” Ben offers in concession. Tone almost pleading.  
  
“You know the rule Benny,” Leia tuts, “no animals in the house.”  
  
Ben’s chest puffs out and Rey becomes acutely aware that this is going to devolve if she doesn’t do something soon. He looks just about ready to burst. His soft eyes harder, his soft mouth pinched, jaw working furiously and chest rising dangerously.  
  
Whatever calm this community lives under, the tension between this small woman and that sequoia shadow is nothing short of volatile. A shock. It’s the scar on an otherwise beautiful face.  
  
Reaching deep within her reserve of strength, she holds her hands up to her dogs. “Stay here with Ben, boys. I’ll be right back,” then turning to _Leia,_ “we’ll be quick?”  
  
“Absolutely hun,” she nods gesturing towards the door.  
  
Rey follows quietly. Like a prisoner on death row. The two figures walking behind her like _she’s_ the threat. Like _she_ needs to be guarded.   
  
When she glances back, she notices the oddest thing.  
  
For the first time since she’s met Ben, he looks _afraid._

  
  


…

  
  


“I’m going to cut right to the chase, Rey,” Leia starts. Her hands are crossed over her chest. Her hip is propped against a desk of sorts. What probably used to be a dining table now littered with books and journals, loose papers and stacks of post-its. Behind her, the wall is lined with more of these books. Rows of shelves that span the width of the wall stuffed with bindings that bear no names. “We haven’t found a new person in a long time.”  
  
Rey stands dumbly in the doorway. Feeling small and chastised by this slip of a woman. She’s not sure exactly why, but she feels like her existence, her _appearance_ is throwing off a delicate balance on this island. More so than whatever tempestuous thing exists between Leia and Ben.  
  
Despite her stature, Leia appears to be strong willed. Professional and practical if not a little showy given the circumstances. The type of woman who takes no hostages and has no time for nonsense.  
  
Her clothing is surprisingly immaculate. Like she not only washes them regularly, but makes sure to keep them in pristine condition. Like she has a closet that consists of more than just a single change. Like dressing for your role still matters.   
  
Her boots are tall, made of good leather. Her pants fitted with tasteful cargo pockets. Her puffer vest matches the cognac of her boots and warms her hard brown eyes. Makes her deep set scowl appear _almost_ like a friendly smile. Like in another life, she could have been the mother figure Rey’d never had.  
  
“Poe and his husband Finn were the last 2 survivors we found and that was almost a year ago,” Leia offers with a flick of her wrist. Standing up and making her way around the desk to a worn kitchen chair with a fur pelt draped over the back and seat.  
  
Again, Rey doesn’t know how to respond so she keeps her mouth shut. Feet firmly planted on the wooden floor and hands clasped before her.  
  
 _Just one night. I have to make it through this night then I’m free again.  
  
_ “Having said that,” Leia sits down with a huff, “we’re more than happy to have found you. We’re always glad to see another person survived that God-awful disease.”  
  
“T-thank you,” Rey manages to stammer quietly.  
  
“The problem is, Rey,” Leia leans forward to rest her chin on her fists, “we haven’t accounted for anyone new so space is quite limited. Nonexistent, to be frank.”  
  
 _Oh okay. There’s no room for me here.  
  
_ “That’s okay. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor for the night as long as the dogs…”  
  
“Oh nonsense. You’re a guest and I won’t have you sleeping on the floor like a wild animal. The others don’t have any spare room but … I do.”  
  
Leia pauses then, and she could swear a crack appears in that hardened exterior. Just a small thing. Barely visible but there nonetheless. Like a straining button keeping a shirt together. Ready to pop if enough pressure is applied.   
  
Through this tear in her emotional fabric, Rey can see hurt. Deep wounds just like she carries herself. Wounds of loss and incomplete mourning. She’s lost someone but hasn’t had the chance to properly come to terms with that loss. Carries it with her but buries it under the veneer of responsible leadership.  
  
It makes standing in the room with her a little more bearable. A little less terrifying.   
  
“The dogs,” she adds ruefully, knowing exactly what Leia’s stance on them is.  
  
“I suppose I could make an exception,” she tilts her head in concession, her lips tugging into a small smile, “God knows what you’ve seen and experienced. I can’t imagine what it took for you to survive on your own for so long. They must have been of great comfort, hmm?”  
  
She could argue that perhaps she hadn’t been on her own. That maybe she was travelling with others and got separated. It’s presumptuous of her to think she’s been alone this whole time. And yet, Leia’s not wrong. So, Rey just nods.  
  
“Well, dear, then that makes them heroes, doesn’t it? And heroes deserve to be inside,” she pauses appraising Rey for a minute, “I don’t expect you to talk or share. Only when you’re ready. We’ve all seen things. We’ve all lost people. Just know that we take good care of each other and while you’re here, we’ll take care of you the same. Now. Would you like to see the spare room?”  
  
Why?  
  
Why doesn’t this feel right? Why can’t she shake the feeling that this is all wrong?   
  
This woman has given her no reason to distrust her. She’s effectively fed her. Welcomed her into this community she’s obviously the architect of. She’s the only one who’s worrying about putting a roof over her head and is even willing to make an exception to a rule she’s stated quite clearly in front of the others.   
  
So why does she feel uncomfortable?  
  
Why is she hunching her back and making herself small? Worrying her lip and twisting her fingers in the fabric of her scarf? Unable to say the words, _of course, Leia, lead the way.  
  
_ “I… that’s a kind offer, but…”  
  
A heavy moment of silence passes. Fills the air and settles like lead between them.  
  
“But trust is hard earned when you’ve seen what you’ve seen,” Leia finishes for her. “You’ve depended on yourself for so long it’s hard to open up and trust another person. Am I … venturing in the right direction?”  
  
Rey drops her eyes, nodding.  
  
Focusing on breathing because this woman’s just torn the cover off her thinly concealed fears. Exposed them like they’re nothing but a book on a shelf, waiting to be opened. Dusty and a little stiff in the binding but easily broken.   
  
It irks her that she’s in this situation. Irks her that she’s put herself in a place of emotional fragility in front of others. _Her_. _Rey_. The girl who survived the foster system and made something of herself. Pulled herself up by her bootstraps and became a medical doctor with a decent sized apartment and a healthy diet that _didn’t_ consist solely of ramen noodles anymore.  
  
That very same Rey who could deliver the news of a loved one passing away with stoic grace and a neutral face, is now crumbling before a small woman she met barely an hour ago in a log cabin with a hydrangea wreath and an ivy trellis.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
She is. She _is_ sorry. Sorry she can’t overcome her fears. Can’t find herself trusting this woman enough to take her up on her kind offering.   
  
“Oh, don’t worry dear. I won’t presume to understand what you’ve experienced. And … maybe one day, if you’re comfortable, we can share. But for now, my biggest concern is finding you a comfortable, warm place for the night. You and your dogs. Is there anyone you’ve met that you … trust enough? I can see if we can shift some bodies around.”  
  
Leia’s hands drop and she sighs softly, a hint of concern in the slight tilt of her head. “I just want you to feel comfortable, Rey. God only knows we could all use a warm bed and a hot meal these days.”  
  
Rey fidgets with her scarf. Pulls at a dangling thread and twists it around her finger. Tugs until it’s gotten ridiculously long then gives it a good yank to snap it off. Balls the bit of thread and rolls it between her fingers.  
  
There _is_ someone she trusts enough. Someone she doesn’t want to admit sets her at ease. Someone with familiar eyes and a soothing presence. Someone who’s a well of bottomless patience for her.  
  
But that would be presumptuous, wouldn’t it? He’s already done so much.  
  
Her eyes drift up to meet Leia’s, ready to speak the one syllable, the string of 3 letters. But she can’t get herself to say the words. Can’t get herself to entangle _him_ in this mess she’s made, even if he’s entangled himself freely.   
  
“Oh,” Leia nods, lips pursing and face betraying a sliver of humour, “I see. Rey, would you … would you mind stepping outside a moment? I’ll have a conversation with him.”  
  
 _How? How did she know?  
  
_ Leia treks through the cabin with Rey on her heels. Out the door where she asks the tall man, _Chewie,_ to grab Ben.  
  
Ben who’s standing not even 10 feet away with Temiri and the dogs.   
  
Ben whose eyes fall on her the moment they clear the door. Something akin to relief skitting across his face before disappearing behind hard eyes.  
  
It’s all a formality. He’s heard Leia’s request. Everyone has with maybe the exception of Poe, Finn, Phasma and the girl Zaya who are seated at the furthest picnic table from the door.   
  
With a nod Ben shuffles past everyone into the house. Foreboding size drawing a wake of menace as he passes. Leia follows suit calmly enough, as does the big man, Chewie. The three trekking inside with heavy footfalls and morose expressions before the door creaks and closes.  
  
Romulus and Remus barrel towards her. Tails wagging as they weave between her legs and bump against her calves. Massive heads searching for her hands. For comfort or to provide comfort, she’s not quite sure who needs it most right now.  
  
“Are they brothers?” The little voice asks.  
  
Rey squats down to eye level, petting Romulus who stoically plants himself in front of her and sniffs her face. Like he’s trying to discern her ebbing emotions. One broad lick across the cheek and she sputters out a laugh, eyes turning back to the boy.  
  
“Yes. This one here’s Romulus. He’s my beta,” she pats his head, reaching back to scruff him so Temiri can pet him too. The boy does. First letting Romulus sniff his hand as Ben taught him, then patting his enormous head with that tiny hand of his. Sliding it down to scratch behind the ear, again, just like Ben taught him.  
  
“The other one you were petting before is Remus. He’s the baby and _very_ obnoxious,” she adds with a comical lilt to her voice for Temiri’s benefit.  
  
It comes so easy, talking to this boy. Like she hadn’t spent a year alone. Like she hadn’t seen dead bodies and infected ones. Like she hasn’t had to take lives or prick her ears at every turn.  
  
“W-what’s a beta?” The boy asks curiously.  
  
“Oh,” she smiles, _actually_ smiles, “you see, Temiri, dogs have hierarchy. Kind of like a pyramid. At the very top you have the alpha. That’s the strongest dog. The leader. Kind of like … Leia? Then below that you have his second in command, the beta.”  
  
“Kinda like uncle Chewie?”  
  
“Y-yeah, like uncle Chewie,” she smiles again. The makeup of this community becoming clearer by the moment.  
  
Remus flops down beside her, the weight of him pushing against her thigh and knocking her over. Relenting to his canine request, she sits on the ground with her boys surrounding her and a young child curiously watching.  
  
“So … who’s their alpha, then?” Temiri’s eyes glance between Romulus and Remus, then up to hers expectantly.  
  
“Oh, well that’d be me,” Rey offers matter of factly, “I’m the leader of this pack. It’s my responsibility to keep them safe. It’s Romulus’ responsibility to watch my back.”  
  
The boy giggles and sits down among her giants. Unafraid. Brave. He’s got one hand scratching under Romulus’ chin and another patting Remus’ belly.  
  
 _He’s a natural.  
  
_ “This one’s cuddlier,” the little boy says, taking both hands and squishing Remus’ muzzle. Pulling his lips back and giggling when Remus looks like he’s smiling. Ferocious chompers on display and all. “He gaved me a kiss when you were talking to Leia.”  
  
“Oh did he?” she muses, “traitor!” Rey swats Remus’ belly playfully, earning her another giggle from Temiri which earns him a broad lick on the cheek from Romulus.  
  
This is nice. Easy. Something she’s missed. Something she never got to do much of in the before. The few friends she did have never had children. Somehow, it feels even _more_ now. Like a swelling in her chest that’s not entirely unpleasant.  
  
“Uh, miss Rey?”  
  
“Just Rey, Temiri.”  
  
“Oh … then just Tem,” he offers in return with a shrug.  
  
“Okay, Tem. What’s up?” That earns her a big, beaming grin.  
  
“If - if you’re the alpha and Leia’s the alpha too, what happens now?”  
  
 _Shit. Leave it to kids to ask the hard questions.  
  
_ She can’t really answer him because, frankly, she’s not going to be staying. She won’t be a threat to Leia’s position nor would she be if she _did_ stay.   
  
Which she won’t.   
  
But how does she explain that social dynamics and family dynamics both overlap and exist in completely different spheres? How does she explain the nuances of human relationships when his only experiences are these people here with maybe a few memories of the before?  
  
Maybe if it was light out she could use a stick to draw venn diagrams into the dirt.  
  
Her eyes trail up where she sees the other giant. The tall woman with a pinched face who smiles softly at Temiri but also looks intrigued. Waiting with bated breath for Rey’s answer.  
  
 _Amilyn, that’s her name.  
  
_ “That,” she pets Remus to buy herself time to think, “is a _very_ grown up question to ask.”  
  
The boy’s chest puffs out, pride radiating off his small body and tinting his cheeks pink.  
  
“Okay, let me try explaining,” she starts carefully, aware now she has an audience with this tall woman who must be close to Leia, “I’m the alpha of _my_ pack. Leia’s the alpha of _her_ pack. Just because two packs come together doesn’t mean there has to only be _one_ alpha. Do you understand?”  
  
The boy nods, grin splitting his chubby face open.  
  
“And sometimes,” Rey continues, “an alpha just likes being the leader of one pack. Like a family. A mommy or daddy is the alpha of the family but can also have a boss at work. Like a pack within a pack.”  
  
 _Shit. Now you’ve confused him.  
  
_ “Uh…” the boy starts to stammer, clearly not understanding the concept of a boss or the convoluted concentric spheres she’s trying to draw in his mind’s eye.  
  
Just then the door crashes open and Ben storms out. His footfalls shake the entire porch structure of the cabin. He’s holding a crate gently enough, but his body radiates bloody murder.   
  
He looks … angry.  
  
 _Shit, fuck, double shit.  
  
_ She’s gone and done it. Barely acclimated to other people and she’s managed to make herself unapproachable to the others while pissing off the _one_ person who’d extended her a helping hand.  
  
“Let’s go,” he mutters in passing. Feet thudding against the packed earth and making a straight line for the dock. Ben looks at no one, eyes trained ahead into the darkness that stands between him and the dock. “Quick, before the clouds roll in.”  
  
Amilyn has already grabbed Temiri by the shoulders, steeling the boy against her and pulling him out of the way.   
  
Rey does the only thing she can think. Follow Ben’s lead.  
  
“It was really nice meeting you Tem,” she offers sadly. Knowing this’ll be the last time she sees this sweet boy.  
  
She stands up quickly and runs after Ben, dogs on her heels and curious eyeballs burning the back of her head. Out of the circle of firelight and into the warm glow of the harvest moon’s.   
  
She follows him silently down the well trodden path, walking in the wake of his churning emotions until they reach the u-shaped dock. Until he’s hopped into the canoe without a word, arranging the clinking crate he’d brought out of Leia’s cabin then grabbing hers from the dock and signalling the boys over.  
  
One by one they hop into his boat, taking their places happily around the crates. Getting a solid pat on the head and earning themselves a ‘good boy’ apiece from Ben.   
  
When he turns to her, she’s frozen on the dock. Shocked and confused. Worried that she’d overstepped and somehow become a burden.   
  
Because that’s why he’s angry, isn’t it? He’s obviously used to whatever life he leads and she’s interfered. Wedged herself in there. Forced her way in, though unwittingly.   
  
What if one of those women around the firepit was his wife? Girlfriend? Is Temiri his child? Why aren’t they with him? Is he taking her back to the shore to sleep in the trailer because he’s tired of how needy she’s become? How much she’s already clinging to him?  
  
“Hey, you okay?” The gentle tone is back, as is the softness in his eyes. She can make it out despite the low light. It’s there reflecting back through the shimmering waves off the water. She’s not sure when it happened, but it’s there and it’s welcoming and confusing and ...   
  
“Did ... did she say something to you? Did she hurt you?”  
  
“W-what? No,” she stutters, confusion twisting further in her gut and mind, “I just … don’t feel obligated. I didn’t mean…”  
  
“No, no! God, no. It’s no obligation, at all. Honest,” and there he smiles again, that soft smile that earned her trust in the first place, “come on.”  
  
She has nowhere else to go. So begrudgingly, skeptically, she steps into the canoe. Takes her seat with the boys and watches him untie the rope and push off, begin paddling further away from mainland.   
  
Towards a smaller island not too far off the one they’d just left. A tiny thing, maybe 40 feet in length. Black and dark green in the low light. A shadowy figure rising out of the water.  
  
They don’t speak much as they approach, even if a million questions assail her mind and dance on the tip of her tongue. Questions she doesn’t ask because she can’t make heads or tails of the volatility she’s witnessed. Of the about-face he’s just made.  
  
But she notices things as they draw closer.   
  
A metal dock that reflects the moonlight, like a bright orange beacon on a dark lake. The shape of a cabin among the firs on the island. What looks to be carved steps from the lower dock to the flat land of the island itself.  
  
Realization dawns that maybe, just maybe, he too seeks solitude.  
  
That he too, has an island of his own.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rey: I'm leaving tomorrow.
> 
> Everyone collectively: Sure, Jan.
> 
> IDK why this matters so much, but a long time ago I read "Things Fall Apart" by Chinua Achebe. It's freaking beautiful if you haven't had a chance to read it. In the book, there's mention of "iron horses" which is the locals' way of describing bicycles (contraptions they'd never seen before). For some reason the comparison's stuck with me and I'm oddly proud of being able to include the analogy here. 
> 
> But hey! Look at that ... cabin shenanigans coming up!


	8. She Dreams of Roots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Solar panels,” he responds with a hint of amusement. His hand reaches behind his back to scratch his neck shyly. Like this is a date and he’s finally gotten her to his place. Like he’s performing the ‘well this is it’ dance._
> 
> _Except it’s not a date._
> 
> _And it’s not a dance._
> 
> _And his place is much nicer than she’d imagined. After spending the summer in her grandfather’s pretentious estate and a winter in a musty cabin (but mostly lived in her car or the trailer) this is the first time anything’s felt like an actual home._
> 
> _Home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did _not_ forget about this baby. It just turns out I'm terrible at juggling multiple WIPs at once. Lesson learned.
> 
> So without further preamble, let's dive right in, shall we?

The dock on Ben’s island is smaller. Much smaller. Meant for one boat. Too short for a larger vessel and too squat for more than one canoe at a time. Like its inhabitant made a point of ensuring they’d be left to their own devices. That it’d be impossible for multiple visitors to arrive at once. Like he wanted the first thing anyone saw on arrival to be a big indirect ‘get the fuck out’ door mat.  
  
When they pull up flush against it, Ben secures a rope around the metal post and begins to unload the crates silently. His body language is a far cry from the volatile inferno she’d followed to the dock, but still holds palpable tension. Like the emotional outburst had imploded and left a dark, ominous mass in the space it voided.   
  
The crate he’d walked out of Leia’s cabin with continues to clink obnoxiously. She’d tried peeking in while he paddled across the water, but her view’d been obscured by what looked like a curtain and she didn’t want to give him more reason to regret their predicament. The clinking is louder than the running of the river water. Louder than the crickets chirping on the bank. Louder than her boys panting.  
  
Their claws occasionally scratch the belly of the canoe. Perfectly timed movements that coincide with every time Ben turns towards them to unload. Like they’re primed and ready for his order. Like they’ve accepted him as their alpha over her already.  
  
It makes sense, logically. He’s been calm minus whatever caused his temper to boil over. He’s big and hard to miss. Has treated the boys with nothing but softness. A presence they’d instinctively recognize and tune into. An inherent alpha dog has entered their pack. He knows where they’re going and moves with an air of ease. Not just here but back there, on the mainland, too.   
  
This is his turf. His domain. One he’s comfortable navigating because he’s done so for however long he’s called it home. _Of course_ they’ll look to him for cues and commands. It’s only natural.  
  
It just hurts that they’ve so easily shifted their attention. That’s all.  
  
It’s a tough pill to swallow. Having fought her whole life for every scrap she had, having to work daily to assert her dominance only for someone like Ben to come and slide into the spot she’d carved herself so meticulously. It reminds her of just how much she’s not worthy of their company. How precarious their existence is.  
  
And it hurts. Hurts to be cast aside. Hurts to have her own shortcomings flaunted in her face so glaringly. But she’s made of steel and grit and determination. It’s how she aced her tests in school despite her stomach’s constant rumbling. How she wrote scholarship application essays from open to close on the local library’s computers until she could muster enough to enroll herself in university.   
  
She ignores the twinge of jealousy and reminds herself that she’s been thrust into Ben’s life. That she’s forced herself on him for the evening, despite her lack of intent. If the dogs want to take their cues from him for the night, she’ll let it slide in an effort to keep the peace. To make the blip of her presence in his life as inconspicuous as possible.  
  
Tomorrow she’ll kindly ask him to take her back to the car and thank him for his hospitality. Maybe she’ll gift him a jar of honey and some of her lidocaine. God knows she’s hoarded more than she could use in whatever this lifetime has left for her anyway. Her grandfather’s lessons so deeply imprinted that every jar of honey she’d found became as precious as fresh water or bullets. A limited resource to be collected and hoarded and protected at all cost.  
  
Maybe she’ll fish out a few deflated tennis balls from the cupboards and let him play with the boys while she takes stock of her needle stash to see if she can spare some syringes for him (dental lidocaine _is_ useless without a mode of administration, afterall). Let him tucker them out and get his fill of canine affection. He seems to enjoy spending time with them. And they seem to enjoy spending time with him, too. It could be a thoughtful parting gift. A mutually beneficial goodbye.  
  
She wishes there was more she could do. More she could offer in gratitude.   
  
A comparable repayment for all he’s done and the stoic grace he continues to _do_ things with. Despite being stuck with her for the night against his wishes.   
  
Something she has that he needs. Something that will express her gratefulness. For all the things he didn’t have to do but did anyway.  
  
And it’s a long list.  
  
He’s given her shelter. Understanding. A safe space both emotionally and physically. Acted as a compass when her bearings had gone haywire. Given her a reason to smile and his aura of protection in the face of _too much.  
  
_ And that’s only counting up till now. She has no idea what to expect once they reach his home. Has no way of knowing if he’ll continue to surprise her and give her things she didn’t know she was missing. There’s still so much time between now and tomorrow. So many ways he can continue to gift her with … well, with what?   
  
_Humanity.  
  
_ It's the only word she has.  
  
He hasn’t given her anything physical outside of food and transportation. Things she readily had for herself. What he’s really given her is a reminder that she’s human. That she’s more than survival tasks and obsessively rationed tins. More than a mass of skin and bones tethered to a hypothetical island.  
  
Romulus is first out. Gracefully ascending onto the dock and planting himself on the corner to watch the moon’s reflection over the water. He’s followed by his brother who scrambles clumsily but fails to hoist himself up. Her little bull-in-a-china-shop needs to be helped out of the canoe. An awkward affair with the help of the man she’s becoming more and more indebted to.  
  
It’s not Ben who’s awkwardly lifting Remus, though. No. Ben is all flexed muscles and smooth lines and power. He doesn’t falter or wobble when his arms close around Remus’ broad chest. He doesn’t sway or shift when he squats up with the childlike beast, even if the canoe rocks.   
  
It’s Remus. Her silly baby. He makes a pained expression, flattens his ears and lowers his head like he’s on the verge of passing gas. Lips pulled back like he’s trying to smile only to look constipated. His entire body’s gone both rigid and soft at once. Surrendering to Ben’s touch but frozen in all his canine ‘elegance’.  
  
It makes her snort, the diaphragmatic spasm pushing past her controlled defences so suddenly it surprises even her. It earns her a confused snap of the head from Ben and an indifferent head tilt from Romulus. Like she’d interrupted his philosophic contemplations.  
  
Her sequoia guardian puts Remus down gently, the dog automatically barrelling towards his brother in a display of overgrown limbs. He nips his brother’s ear, tail nub wagging, then chases him up the stairs to play in what appears to be a clearing. Their disappearance leaves her alone in the silence that follows her oafish release and the awkwardness that ensues.  
  
“Sorry,” she coughs to clear her throat, “just … his face.” Her hand flicks towards the dogs, as if clarification could gloss over the ridiculous noise she’d just made.  
  
“Mmm,” he presses his lips together, “need help?”  
  
It happens in an instant. So fast she doesn’t see it coming. Only feels it the moment it’s too late to rein in.  
  
The dam breaks. Something that’s long been locked and chained bursts, bright and radiant. She laughs again. Louder. Breathier. A bray that echoes across the open water and brings tears to her eyes.  
  
“Y-you sh-should h-have seen,” she gasps for air, clutching her stomach and grasping the side of the dock for stability, “s-seen his f-face.” Another snort escapes, this one louder and piggish. Her head lolls back in surrender. Laughing freely into the cool night wind. “It was all,” her face contorts, corners of the mouth pulled down and teeth on display like a bad impression of an underbite, eyes squinting and brows knitted. A poor approximation of Remus’ constipated face but as close as she can muster with the way this uninvited laughter wracks her body.  
  
She’s seen dogs make this face before. Usually small lap dogs. The toy poodles and yorkies and tiny yappy pups that get picked up more often than not. It’s the drop of their heads and the squinting of their eyes. It’s not something she’d ever found particularly funny but somehow, seeing a hulking beast like Remus emulate...  
  
And then there’s Ben. Ben whose face cycles through the strangest series of emotions even if she can barely see them through the tears and the dim light.   
  
At first his lips part, an immediate expression of shock, probably in response to her drastic change in behaviour. Then comes a hint of concern. A slight tilt of his head and a confused furrow of the brow that say ‘what the fuck’ about as clearly as if he’d spoken the words. Then comes acceptance. In the form of his hulking mass plunking down on the dock and the corners of his mouth twitching.  
  
He sits there and waits for her to laugh. Occasionally coughing to cover up what she’s convinced is a chuckle. Knuckles working the tails of his shirt and occasionally rapping against his chest to cover up his throaty gurgles.  
  
When the spasms of laughter begin to ebb, she hiccups and stutters an apology. “S-sorry. It was … I don’t know where that came from.” She clears her throat and forces out a long breath, expelling the remainder of her emotion with it. Releasing it into the foreign air on this foreign river that contains her future (somewhere).  
  
“I wish I’d seen it,” his eyes flash with a glint of humour, the corners of his mouth twitching as he stands up and wipes his hands over his tree trunk thighs.   
  
“It was…” her eyes meet his and for a brief moment she realizes just how dangerous this is. How much pain can come from surrendering to this connection. From allowing it to spark.   
  
Even if it feels easy. Even if he has familiar eyes and even if she trusts him enough to laugh in his presence, this isn’t the world they live in now. It’s not a world where small talk can yield results. Where connections can be made and seeds can be sown. Nurtured. Allowed to grow roots. Where _feelings_ still have sway and hold power.  
  
It’s a broken world with broken people.   
  
Leia may have built something that resembles the before on that island, but Ben’s solitude is proof that there’s scars in all of them. Herself included. They may have found a way to barricade themselves from the dangers on land, but they can’t barricade themselves from their collective trauma.  
  
“It was ... something,” she sighs deflating. Letting the moment be swept away by the wind and the water. Letting the light seep out of her eyes and in turn, his.  
  
She clears her throat again and hoists herself up. Stretches while he pulls the canoe to the side and slings a multitude of ropes around its various hooks and cleats and flips three fenders to bolster the vessel from damage against the dock. Once he’s happy the canoe is secured, he picks up her crate and starts motioning towards the steps.   
  
Naturally, she reaches for the second one in good faith. It’s only fair she pull her weight in light of his hospitality. So she reaches for the crate covered by sheer fabric that does nothing to soften the clinking and also happens to be heavier than anticipated.  
  
“Leave that,” he grunts, “I’ll grab it later.”   
  
Ben pauses for a moment and looks across the water. Back to where they came from. Where the lights of Leia’s little village glow against the dark sky and the tiny flicker of their central fire illuminates cabins. He sighs deeply then turns back towards the stairs. “Let’s get you settled in, okay?”  
  
Rey nods. Steps aside as if to say ‘after you’ and lets him lead the way. Well aware that something’s shifted in this brief moment. Even his faux bravado, the forced friendly lilt to his voice can’t soothe the distance that’s swelled between them. In that short glance across the water he’s managed to grow an impassable rift.  
  
Which is fine.  
  
 _This_ is fine.  
  
It’s only one night and she’ll be out of his hair.  
  
She lets her eyes drop down to their path. Lets herself shrink behind while he processes whatever’s just grown roots in his mind.  
  
It’s only a handful of steps, really. 10 at most. Each one reminds her of a wooden fence post embedded in the mud and chiselled stone to create a rudimentary ascending staircase. The earth patted down by the weight of hundreds of footfalls and (probably) a shovel to create sturdy, wide steps.   
  
She wonders if her island has this. If her island is also raised or if it’s at water level.  
  
She wonders if it’s safer to have a little elevation between your shelter and the water. Something that’ll account for the river’s natural swell in the spring. Something to act as a buffer when an early thaw and torrential rains bloat the waters.  
  
She wonders if it doesn’t, would she have the know how? The tools? The brawn to build something like this?   
  
Does her island have a dock like Ben’s?   
  
Does it have electricity like Leia’s cabins?   
  
Is it bigger than this? Smaller?   
  
Does it have trees for firewood?   
  
Does it have a boat readily available?   
  
Supplies? Are they spoilt?   
  
It’s been a year, has it fallen into disrepair? Squirrels gnawing roof shingles? Allowing mould and rot to reach their destructive tendrils inside. To ruin her future shelter?  
  
A lively whoof draws her eyes up from her weather worn boots.  
  
Romulus and Remus are rolling around in the clearing. To be fair, Romulus is rolling around in the grass while Remus runs circles around him, nipping his paws and ears in an attempt to coax him into a little game of tag. The well trodden path beneath her feet draws her eye straight to a rustic cabin with a wrap around deck and a large, sloped roof that glimmers in the moonlight.   
  
On either side of the path are wood lined vegetable plots. Some grown tall and green, plump tomatoes dangling heavily, while others have small tufts of leaves peeking just above the ground, indicative of a healthy root vegetable sleeping beneath the soil. There’s a long plot on the left, far removed from the others with a tall wire cage around it. An overgrown vine all but engulfing the frame and reaching sky-high.  
  
“I … uh,” Ben nods towards the cabin, “you should leave the pups outside for a minute.”  
  
She furrows her brow in confusion. He’d been so friendly with the boys until now. Has he changed his mind? Is he afraid they’ll destroy his place (it wouldn’t be the first time someone worried her boys would destroy their valuables or furniture)? Is his partner in there? Is his partner afraid of dogs? Is it easier to explain the inconvenience of her presence in bite sized increments so as not to spook this new person? If there is another human there, are they sick? Is that why this person wasn’t with the others?  
  
“I just don’t know how Kylo will react,” he offers, stepping onto the raised porch and pausing in front of the door, “that’s all.”  
  
 _Kylo? Who’s Kylo?  
  
_ So there _is_ another person…  
  
He cradles the crate between his forearm and stomach, reaches his free hand to open the door. It creaks only a little like it’s still new. Just as the scent of fresh wood and homemade food and masculinity hit her, the dogs race between their legs into the dark confines of his living space.  
  
Before either her or Ben have stepped into the cabin there’s a yowl and a hiss. Two confused whoofs and a whimper. The scraping of furniture being jolted out of place. A small black shadow whizzes between them and into the treeline.  
  
“Fuck,” Ben grumbles, “I was afraid of that.”  
  
He puts the crate down. Hands fumbling against the wall where he flips a switch and … he has working lights too.  
  
 _How?  
  
_ “How…” her voice trails in awe as she drinks in her surroundings.  
  
It’s not big by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s cozy. A perfectly rectangular space that’s functional and brilliantly segmented. To her left are a series of counters trailing to the end of the wall. If she’s not mistaken there appears to be a stove and a fridge. To the right is a coat rack and a chest of drawers. A rudimentary shoe rack too. An armoire is wedged between the chest of drawers and the perpendicular wall. A straw broom leaned haphazardly beside a grand window overlooking the water.  
  
Across from the chest of drawers, taking advantage of the window and its view, sits a small table with 3 chairs. On the opposite side, a cognac coloured leather sofa that looks like it’s seen better days facing a large fireplace. On one side is a pile of neatly stacked logs swaddled between the fireplace and far wall. On the other, a bookcase stacked with various bindings and odd boxes and mechanical looking chotchkies.   
  
To the right of the bookshelf is a door cracked open slightly. To the right of _that_ is a short hallway that appears to have 2 more doors.  
  
“Solar panels,” he responds with a hint of amusement. His hand reaches behind his back to scratch his neck shyly. Like this is a date and he’s finally gotten her to his place. Like he’s performing the ‘well this is it’ dance.  
  
Except it’s not a date.  
  
And it’s not a dance.  
  
And his place is much nicer than she’d imagined. After spending the summer in her grandfather’s pretentious estate and a winter in a musty cabin (but mostly lived in her car or the trailer) this is the first time anything’s felt like an actual home.  
  
 _Home.  
  
_ Her grandfather’s estate smelled like mothballs and dust and whiskey. It was too big and felt haunted in its vastness. Empty halls that hadn’t heard laughter in decades. That echoed sounds and creaked eerily. The mountain cabin had smelled like mildew at first but eventually took on the scent of wet dogs and dried snow. The smell of outside steeped into its walls and her skin and her boy's fur.  
  
This smells like…  
  
 _Home.  
  
_ Like freshly cut trees and like hearty stew and thousands of hours of cozy fires and a lot like man. Something a little leathery and a lot like a library with an undertone of inherent masculinity.  
  
“I … I’ll just,” he stutters, “that door there is my … the bedroom.” He points to the door to the right of the bookcase. “It shares the fireplace with the main living area. Figured it’d be best to build _one_ than have to wrangle the logistics of managing two. Those doors there,” his hand sweeps towards the short hall, “the one in the back is my workshop. The other is the bathroom. I … I don’t have a spare bed but you can take the … uh … I’ll just sleep on the couch.”  
  
Rey’s mouth flaps uselessly. Unsure what to say or where to start.  
  
 _What was the yowling? Was that a cat?  
  
_ _You have a bathroom???  
  
_ _Please don’t worry yourself, I’ll sleep on the sofa no problem. Between the two of us I’d fit on it better anyway.  
  
_ “That was,” he gulps and, for a brief moment, she’s mesmerized by the bobbing of his Adam's apple, “Kylo he’s … a cat. My? Yeah, _my_ cat. He … uh … I don’t think he’s ever met a dog, that’s why…”  
  
“I can sleep on the couch,” she blurts. His blundering clearly having bled through to her.  
  
“Uh … I mean,” his chest stutters on a deep breath, audibly so, “I’d feel more comfortable if you’d take the bed. Really. But whatever you prefer I just want y— I don’t want you to feel unwelcome.”  
  
“Right,” her brows raise and she releases a forced exhale. Puffs out her cheeks and purses her lips to draw it out. A renewed wave of awkwardness settling over them. Remus has decided to roll around on the sofa, his paws occasionally peek past the back of the couch. The silence punctured occasionally by his snorts and grunts, the squeaking of the old leather. Romulus, like the true alpha-turned-beta he is, sits in the middle of the space, eyes darting between the two humans who’re at a conversational impasse.  
  
“R-right,” Ben mutters, then moves past her into the bedroom. A rush of confused emotions and resolve trails his uncomfortable exit. She glances down at Romulus, more out of habit than an actual search for answers, who returns her glance with equal confusion. His head tilts questioningly.  
  
Shrugging, she lets her eyes wander. Lets them settle on the large paned window that looks out over the water. It has a perfect view of Ben’s dock and the village. Where the lights glimmer and little Temiri is probably tucking into bed right now.  
  
 _Still close but far enough.  
  
_ Ben returns shortly. Deposits a faded red towel, the colour of dusty rose, a flannel pile, and two small cardboard boxes onto the counter.  
  
“You … uh … get comfortable. Get washed up. The water heater sh-should be fully charged and the tank should be full so you can … you know, have a shower… I … if you want, of course.” The last little bit comes out as a squeak. “I’ll,” he clears his throat for the umpteenth time, “I’ll just be…”  
  
His hand points loosely to the door before he shoulders his way out of the cabin, closing the door behind him.  
  
The space feels emptier without his foreboding presence. He’d taken up so much room, now that it’s vacant she’s left … puzzled.  
  
Alone.  
  
How odd. He’d been the picture of cool, calm, and collected until they entered his personal space. Now, suddenly, he’s tongue tied? What could possibly make a sturdy mountain suddenly crumble?  
  
Realization dawns. All at once. Like an avalanche knocked loose and blanketing everything in its path under its stifling weight.  
  
Her _presence_ is the imposition. She’s forced herself on a man who clearly values solitude as much as she’s learned to. A man whose life happens between these very walls. A man who’s built a life meant for only himself. And now she’s in it.   
  
She’s a stain and a scar. An obnoxious fly ruining the tranquil silence he’s surrounded himself with. A bump in the road. A chink on an otherwise perfect crystal glass. Her very _presence_ is the earthquake that’s unsettled the mountain.   
  
He doesn’t deserve this discomfort. Doesn’t deserve to have his life uprooted by her arrival.  
  
The realization and accompanying remorse helps settle her resolve. She wraps herself in its finality and draws strength from its comforting weight.   
  
Yes, she can admit to herself now that meeting others has stirred whatever bit of human vulnerability she had left. Whatever little bit she’d entombed within her ribcage in order to survive despite grim odds. But her presence _here_ is tipping the scales and _that_ proves she’s not where she’s meant to be.  
  
There’s nothing either of them can do about their predicament for tonight, so she resolves to leave as little imprint on his life as possible. Until then, she grabs the towel, leaving the little toothpaste and toothbrush he’d so thoughtfully procured and fishes through her crate for her own supplies. She pulls out the rolled up pajamas and snags the flannel (because it looks warm _not_ because it smells divine), fists her frayed toothbrush and mostly empty toothpaste. Toes off her boots and begins walking towards the door he’d declared to be the bathroom.  
  
Behind her Romulus whines.   
  
“What is it, Rom?” She turns the knob, letting the door to the bathroom swing open. It’s spacious. With a shower/tub combo and what appears to be a perfectly white porcelain toilet. There’s a vanity that looks too new with a vessel sink and a spotless mirror.  
  
It makes her heart clench. Her throat tighten. It’s so … normal. So … before.  
  
Her free hand pats the wall and sure enough, there’s a light switch that when flipped, lights up the space.  
  
Romulus whines again, dragging her attention back to the pup who’s sitting in front of the door. His paw pats the wooden floor boards twice. A form of communication they’d worked out ages ago.  
  
“You want out?”  
  
Romulus grunts, his head darts to the door then back to her for a shake.  
  
“Alright,” she deposits her small pile onto the counter, “don’t run after the cat, okay?”  
  
Remus noisily jumps off the sofa to join his brother, both barrelling through the doorway the moment she’s worked it open.   
  
She watches them run and hop. Romp and roll. Letting her heart swell with gratitude for this little stopover in an oasis. A glimpse into what her future holds before she turns to shut the door and toe back to the bathroom.  
  
It’s still warm enough for them outside. And they’re on an island so they’re safe and hopefully, so is the cat.   
  
They deserve a few peaceful moments of freedom. A rare chance to just _be.  
  
_ Besides, she won’t take long.

  
  


↩️

  
  


Sheev doesn’t like using the generator for unnecessary reasons. Claims the damn thing is too noisy and could attract unwanted attention. So they take their evening meals by candle light.  
  
It still amazes her that he owns _this_ many candles. She’s lost count of how many tapered candles they’ve gone through. Doesn’t know where he gets them from. Only that she’s been given an ancient looking chamberstick and an allotment of one tapered candle every 10 days or so. She learned to ration them after she’d blown through her first one in 3 days reading late into the night.  
  
Maybe that’s what he’s stashed in those aladdin’s caves of his. Candles. Mountains and mountains of candles. Storage units in bumfuck towns or between long stretches of farmland filled to the brim with … candles.   
  
She scoffs at the idea. Rolls her eyes and glances up over the candle light to see her grandfather softly snoring in his chair. The flames distort his face, a shimmer that softens the edges of him, adds a hint of colour to his usual pallor.  
  
The candles they use aren’t scented. Burn low and slow so they last. She muses that maybe, one day, he’ll tap into his prized Bath & Body Works collection. If he takes candles _this_ seriously, he must have splurged at one point or another. Maybe the scent of the apocalypse will turn out to be ‘Peach Bellini’ or ‘Sugared Snickerdoodle’.  
  
Her stomach growls as she looks down at her plate with a frown.   
  
Tonight’s dinner is of her own design. Slices of SPAM (a canned commodity they unfortunately have plenty of) and overcooked frozen spinach (courtesy of the monstrosity of a freezer he keeps in the bowels of the mansion). Two fingers of whiskey and a shared 2 pack of twinkies.   
  
She shouldn’t be surprised considering she’s the architect of this dinner. Had even accepted tonight’s meal to be half decent nutritionally. But her tastebuds remember the cold bubbly tang of a peach bellini on a hot summer day and the soft cinnamony goodness of snickerdoodles with a cup of hot cocoa in December. Somehow, their pre-packaged, canned meal suddenly feels like settling.  
  
Then again, is it? She’s seen a glimpse of what’s going on outside of the electrified fence but gets to live within their confines comfortably enough. Maybe getting her hands on a pack of snickerdoodles or canned peaches and sparkling wine isn’t worth the risk of venturing outside her grandfather’s electrified fence.  
  
Enric hasn’t returned so she comforts herself with the knowledge that he’s holed up in one of her grandfather’s caves, waiting for a lull in the craziness of the outside world before he returns with whatever he was sent out for. She kind of misses him.   
  
Not that she’s had many conversations with him, but unlike her grandfather he’s … comforting. Perhaps it’s the fact that he came to her aid when her car stalled in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps it’s his calm demeanor and ability to lurk without seeming creepy. Like if shit were to hit the fan, he’d be a dependable companion.  
  
Unlike her grandfather who’s half asleep at the table.  
  
Romulus settles by her chair with a grunt. His brother is off sleeping like a log on one antique sofa or another. Probably. He’s been favouring this god-awful baroque contraption with a dull gold filigree frame and tightly wound rose pillows. It’s one of the Lincoln rooms at the front. One of them, because this house is a mansion and there’s too many rooms that all look the same. Decorated to serve the same function. An antique furniture display.  
  
They’re a gallery of collectibles. Ornate furniture and original pieces of art. Decadent tapestries and inlaid wood floors and soft persian rugs with the silkiest tassels. Museums with no one to walk through that make exceptional dens for the pups to nap in.  
  
“Don’t worry about Enric,” her grandfather appears to have rejoined her in the dining room. Snapped out of his seated nap. “He knows what he’s doing. Probably holed up until the coast is clear.”  
  
That’s what she’d assumed, too. It’s good to know he’s safe. Probably.  
  
“How far is the nearest unit?” She asks more for conversation than out of actual curiosity. Her fork mashes the SPAM until it’s a pink paste. Less runny than the spinach but eerily reminiscent of the fleshy pink beneath a person’s dermis. It gives her goosebumps and sends a chill down her spine.  
  
“Bout half an hour,” her grandfather mumbles, spinach dripping down his chin as he shakily brings the fork up to his mouth.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
He doesn’t answer. Only spears a slice of SPAM and crams it into his mouth. It’s disgusting to watch so she averts her eyes and focuses on building perfect forkfuls of her own. She’s found that eating slower helps alleviate the lack of a sizable meal these days. That if she chews for longer, if she takes her time with her meals (bland as they may be) she can fool her stomach into thinking it’s actually full.  
  
The sounds he makes, however, can’t be blocked out or ignored.  
  
His dentures are loose so his lips and jowls jitter and shake with every grind of his jaw. Wet sounds of food smacking his tongue and palette, the gurgling sound of his swallows. The rattling cough after every mouthful that resonates from his chest but remains muffled behind his lips.  
  
They eat in silence. Only Romulus’ snores and her grandfather’s chewing fill the stagnant air in the house. The clinking of their forks as they scoop or stab the mush on their fancy bone china plates.   
  
Until the sounds stop.  
  
There’s the scratch of a plate pushed across the table and a muffled belch.  
  
“That’s not where I sent him, you know,” her grandfather’s clearly finished demolishing his dinner, “not to the storage units.”  
  
“I see,” she drawls indifferently.  
  
“Sent him for something else.”  
  
Does he … want her to ask? Should she? Their conversations are stilted at best. Unless it’s about basic survival, of course. He’s chattiest when he’s giving her lessons. When he gets to unload his bounty of knowledge.  
  
He broaches the subject with the vigour of a professor asked about his favourite subject. Leaves no stone unturned when he’s explaining seed rationing and the basics of canning. How to build a makeshift freezer with nothing but a spade and some packing snow.   
  
When it comes to his storage units though, or his island, he seems rather cryptic.   
  
Well, they have time and she has nothing to lose. There’s a very good chance he’ll forget their conversation come morning anyway.  
  
“So where _did_ you send him?” She asks this over a sip of whiskey, schooling her face to impassivity even if the infernal liquor scorches her throat on its descent.  
  
“Scouting,” her grandfather leans back. He pats his stomach and belches again. His milky irises pronounced in the low candle light. Reminding her of his glaucoma and the imminent ramifications of _that_ condition.  
  
“For others?” There’s a glimmer of hope in her voice. Others would mean company and _any_ company is better than his. She’d been able to handle him well enough when they met over dinners or lunches in the busy city. When there were people to watch and excuses to cut their time short. Here she’s stuck and their differences become glaringly obvious in the long stretches of silence.  
  
“No,” he chuckles darkly, “others are a nuisance. I’m not running a rescue operation. I’m keeping us alive.”  
  
Rey nods. Thoughtfully chews another mouthful of spinach and pretends this is alright. Pretends not to be let down.  
  
“Then, if you don’t mind my asking,” she scoops the remainder of her meat mash, “what for?”  
  
Her grandfather cackles. “Curious girl,” his laughter _should_ be light hearted but only feels ominous. Probably because it’s broken by a series of coughs that escalate with every heave of his shoulders. “A route,” he coughs harder, body jolting forward to hold onto the edge of the table.   
  
Rey sits there, fork halfway to her mouth and body rigid. She sits and watches and feels her body intuitively lean forward, ready to spring into action. Ready to up and administer medical assistance the minute it’s required.  
  
Because it’s looking more and more certain she’ll need to do _something_ for him.  
  
His fingers shake but the cough seems to settle. His eyes fixed on the glossy surface of the table like a tether while he focuses on drawing even breaths and calming his diaphragm.  
  
“Solitude is best, you know?”  
  
Her head tilts curiously. His body’s stopped acting up yet he insists on imparting a lesson at the very moment he should seek rest. His lungs are telling him to slow down but he stubbornly continues despite his anatomical protests.   
  
“People will only slow you down. Like iron shackles. When it all goes to hell,” he pauses as if waiting for a cough that doesn’t come, “when it all goes to hell … solitude is best. Because you won’t die due to another idiot’s mistakes. Because you have the choice to go out on your own terms.”  
  
Sheev stands up weakly. It’s a terrible, creaky affair that happens in slow motion. Rey hears every joint popping and every tendon groaning with every inch he unfurls.  
  
“Aah shit,” he shakes his head, “we’ll pick this up tomorrow. I’m exhausted.”  
  
Before he can take a step forward and excuse himself to go rest, his eyes glaze over and his body crumples to the floor.

  
  


…

  
  


The next hour of her life feels like a lifetime in snippets.  
  
There’s the scraping of chair legs against the marbled floor.   
  
There’s the heavy weight of her only family, her only human companion. Her body sweating under the duress of supporting his mass. There’s blankets billowed and pillows fluffed and pained groans and the smell of expensive aftershave and unclean dentures.   
  
There’s a candle being lit and shadows dancing in corners. There’s floors creaking and claws pattering and heavy, immeasurable silence filled with gasping breaths.  
  
There’s a medical kit and a blood pressure monitor. A rechargeable pulse oximeter and the steady squeezing of an ambu bag between her fingers. Switched at even intervals between one hand and the other to relieve sore muscles. The pneumatic push and pull of oxygen as it fills and leaves the ambu bag and fills Sheev’s lungs.  
  
As her grandfather’s breathing evens, as she watches him drift off to sleep and stares at the pulse oximeter until her eyes swim, she realizes that she’s never been more afraid of solitude than she is in _that_ very moment.  
  
The moment solitude fixes its black eyes on her and grins. 

  
  


↪️

  
  


Steady flames flicker in the fireplace when she gets out.  
  
The front door is still closed and the dogs are still missing. As is Ben. But there’s a fire and there’s a pillow and a thick duvet folded on the sofa. Her crate is tucked beside the sofa and the heavy, clinking crate sits on the kitchen counter. The lights have been turned off and the room is cast in sleepy orange hues.  
  
She adjusts her threadbare pajama pants, checks her braid that’s dripping down her exposed shoulder, turning her already thin tank top translucent. Toes her way barefoot to the large window overlooking the water to see Ben sitting on the dock with the pups on either side. One is curled up in a tight ball (probably Remus), the other sitting stoically by his side.   
  
Two shadowed figures contemplating their own existence.   
  
It’s strange, seeing two bodies like that. Canine and human. Two beings with beating hearts and sound minds finding solace in the quiet existence of the other.   
  
She finds solace herself, just in watching them. A reminder of why she exists. A reminder of why she needs to keep fighting. Keep surviving. Keep pushing on.  
  
Ben’s shape lifts up something long and cylindrical. Brings it to his lips. Tilts it back then shakes his head, long curls jostling before settling back in place like a shampoo commercial. He breathes deeply, the rise and fall of his back clearly visible even from this distance.  
  
Sheev had been wrong. So, so wrong.  
  
Solitude might be safest, yes, but people don’t slow you down. They remind you of why you’re breathing. Why you keep fighting despite grim odds. If that’s not the wind beneath your wings, she doesn’t know what is.   
  
If her boys acted like her glue, like the tendons and bones holding her viscera in place, people could too.   
  
Maybe not forever. Maybe this is a transient moment she’ll look back on in a few months time. Remember the night she spent here, in the presence of a gentle redwood with sad eyes. The night her dogs met other survivors and were allowed a moment of reprieve.   
  
And for his hospitality, she wants to give him a gift. Something meaningful and special. Something that could possibly stroke his human flame and give _him_ a glimmer of hope, a tethered rope to guide him out of his sadness.  
  
Just like he’s given her.  
  
She pulls the flannel on. Lets herself be soothed by its warmth and length, its scent of man and fresh wood and earth. With a rudimentary plan still forming in her mind’s eye, she opens a few cupboards until she finds 2 copper mugs. Slips on her boots and leaves the confines of the cabin.  
  
The path to the water is lined in lights now. Awash in soft blue emitted by little stake lights that must be solar. She follows the lit path down to the dock where she’s greeted by three lazy head turns. Where she sits down on the other side of Romulus and holds out the mugs in a gesture of camaraderie.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I don’t usually have … aah … here.”  
  
His hand reaches past Romulus to grab the copper mugs. Lines them up and pours the liquid in. Not sparingly like her grandfather. Heavy handed. Like it’s water or juice or pop, not whatever alcohol it must be.  
  
Her eyes watch the liquor flow. Aware that he’s got a crate of whatever this is but unwilling to ask why he’s not rationing it.  
  
Romulus sneezes, whoofs softly then pulls away. No doubt his sensitive nose had had enough of the scent of alcohol. He curls up behind her and heaves an annoyed sigh.  
  
“He’s not a drinker, I presume?” Ben’s hand reaches out to pass her the full cup. The harsh, medicinal scent fills her senses with memories of smoke and cigars and dark wooden studies of doctors congratulating each other at their annual Christmas gatherings.   
  
“No,” she laughs softly, fingers curling around the mug like she’s chasing warmth. “He’s more one for beer,” she jokes lightly, leaning over the edge of the dock to give her braid a squeeze. Listening to the droplets tinkle before they join the passing water of the river on its journey.  
  
“Are you?”  
  
 _At least he’s more conversational now.  
  
_ “I’m not one for whiskey,” she sighs, “but desperate times call for desperate measures.”  
  
They sit in silence for a while. Ben takes a few sips from his cup, hissing with the burn each time. She takes one of her own and coughs pathetically as the whiskey sets her throat on fire.  
  
“It’s Scotch,” he offers. Eyes trained in the distance, probably on the little glowing lights of the cabins across the water.  
  
“Aah,” she studies the mug in her hand, like seeing the liquid will change its flavour. Like visual acceptance can change its harshness and focus the flavour, “can’t say I’m one for that either, then.”  
  
Ben bobs his head. Nods at nothing and no one as their conversation dies a slow death.   
  
They sit in companionable silence. Occasionally smacking their lips or sighing, grunting to ease the burn of the Scotch. The water keeps gurgling and the dogs keep snoring and they sit like time is of no consequence.   
  
A loon sings in the distance and occasionally there’s a splash or gurgle. The wet slap of water against rocks gives the crickets occasional pause and the moon continues to beam down relentlessly.   
  
Here they’re untouchable. Here they’ll live forever. If tomorrow is her last day, she’ll have lived just enough in this moment. Surrounded by all the things _it_ couldn’t steal from her. Things like moonlight and the warmth of the boys and the soothing presence of another human body with a beating heart.  
  
“What’s your poison, then?” He startles her. Startles Remus, even. It’s been silent for so long, spoken word feels like a gut punch.   
  
Rey shrugs. Takes another sip and coughs quietly through her nose. “Never been much of a drinker,” she confides, “but if I had to choose ... a glass of wine to unwind.”  
  
“So you were a soccer mom, then,” he speaks steadily. There’s a lilt to his voice and when she chances a glance his way, there’s the beginnings of a smile. A rise in the corner of his mouth where a dimple is making itself known.  
  
“Pfft,” if he’s toeing his way back to friendly conversation, so can she, “I wish.”  
  
“No kids in the peewee league?” The smile grows a little more. Dimple becomes a fraction deeper as she shakes her head. If it’s possible, she can feel the strain in his voice ease. Like a coil that’s being unwound. “So a sommelier, then?”  
  
Rey snorts. “Boxed wine was good enough for me. My palette never quite developed … that way.”  
  
She can’t very well tell him her palette barely had a chance to evolve past kraft dinner and ramen noodles and childhood starvation. But this admission is more than she’s ever shared with anyone. Even in the before.  
  
“Well,” he leans back onto his elbows, “you don’t sound French. So … what did you do before … all this?” His hand sweeps over the expanse of water. A gesture they both know implies the clusterfuck the world’s become.  
  
She won’t tell him, though. No. Her past profession is irrelevant to their predicament and could only chain her in place. She can’t be sure if anyone on that other island has medical training, but it’s not worth the risk.   
  
It’s an important enough skill to have for survival. An anatomical understanding of the body that goes beyond making tourniquets and disinfecting superficial wounds. Medical training allows one to _see_ ailments. _See_ problems before they take root. Offers an intimate understanding of the workings of the body that your average person doesn’t have.   
  
She’s trained to deal with infection and setting bones, knows how to wade through a sea of symptoms to narrow down probable cause and administer treatment. And that … _that_ could be a hot commodity in times like these.  
  
Instead she sighs, leans back to mimic his easy posture and offers an answer that’s neither here nor there. “I was just another person going through the motions of living.”  
  
He takes a large gulp from his mug, pulls his lips thin and kisses his teeth as he swallows. “I get it,” he offers tightly, eyes glinting at her, “if it makes you feel any better, I used to be a maple syrup conglomerate.”  
  
Maybe it’s the Scotch or maybe it’s the confession, Rey whips her head to him, mouth dropping incredulously. “A-are you serious? What’s … how? … that’s a thing?”  
  
Ben nods. Turns his head back towards the water where his dimple appears again, deeper than before. His eyes crinkle while he worries his lips for a minute before he breaks out into a wholesome laugh.  
  
“No,” he booms, loud and long like it’s the funniest thing in the world, “it’s not a thing. At least I don’t think it is. I was kidding.” His hand comes up to wipe his mouth. Like laughter is crumbs. Like he’s trying to cover his carefree expulsion.  
  
She chuckles quietly and shakes her head. Takes a sip from her mug and lets the humour flow between them with surprising ease.  
  
“Electrical engineer,” he turns back towards her, smiling even if he’s a little glassy eyed, “I’m why we have all this.” His mug points at his cabin and those across the water. “There’s a solar company up that way,” he tips his chin to the south, “they had a _lot_ of unused panels in their warehouse. We used as many as we could fit and we still have lots left unused. Secured. Of course.”  
  
“I see,” her eyes follow his gaze down river but she offers nothing more.  
  
“I’m working on building a radio. Something to send out a signal to others who might have survived. That’s … uh … that’s why I don’t have a spare room despite … you know … _having_ a spare room.”  
  
Why is he offering these words so freely?  
  
Sheev never did. He was calculated in their small talk and only fully let loose when it was about survival. Ben is … making conversation. Talking because he can and because maybe he _likes_ talking to her?  
  
She should offer something in return. But can she? The warmth in her belly beckons her to. It chases the human connection and conversation with pressing urgency but her mind, or at least the part of her that’s not growing hazy from the Scotch screams at her to keep it in.  
  
Her response is a choked “I…”  
  
“You don’t have to share,” he soothes softly, “it’s alright. I get it. It’s just … it was nice to share freely. For once. I’m sorry if … if that made you uncomfortable.”  
  
Her eyes dart over to the cabins across the water. Over to the big island that stands between them and her car. Between them and her future. If she opens up, that distance might grow too large. They’ll find out and convince her to stay and growing roots where she’s not meant to be is dangerous. Right?  
  
“I…”  
  
“You’re worried I’d tell them, aren’t you?” He sits up. Hunches over his bent knees and swirls the remaining liquid in his mug. “You probably did something that’d be a hot commodity in these times, huh.” His words are spoken more in thought than conversation.  
  
“I understand,” he fixes his eyes on the mug, arm draped over his knee in contemplation, “just … if you ever travel this way again or the panels on your car crap out … I’m your guy.”  
  
His friendly offer settles like a warm blanket. Wait, maybe that’s just the booze.  
  
“I…”  
  
“Rey?” He tilts his head, worried and careful. “You don’t have to tell me. Honest.”  
  
For a brief moment he just watches her deliberate. Watches her squirm with indecision.   
  
“If you do though, know that I won’t tell them. You deserve to live your life the way _you_ want to.” His head rolls back, eyes fixed across the water. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped an octave. “It’s hard to know yourself as a person. Much less exist like … _that_ ,” he scowls towards the cluster of cabins, “it’s draining this … pretending. To be honest with you, I don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around what’s happened yet. I still wake up thinking I hear my alarm some days.”  
  
Ben tilts the mug and swallows the dredges of spirit left in his mug. Licks his lips and darts his eyes between the mug and open bottle. Like he’s deliberating a refill.   
  
“ER physician,” she blurts, “I am … was … I don’t. _Fuck_. I’m a doctor.”  
  
His eyes flicker to hers. Where she finds nothing malicious or calculating. Just appreciation and understanding and maybe even a little bit of awe.  
  
“ _Wow_ ,” he huffs, brows raised in surprise, “that’s … yeah I won’t tell them. _Definitely_. They’ll for sure try to convince you to stay.”  
  
That’s _exactly_ what she’s afraid of.  
  
“Scout’s honour,” he makes a crossing motion over his chest, then proceeds to tighten the cap on the bottle, “I won’t tell a soul. Promise. Besides, I … I have this feeling you don’t plan on staying anyway.”  
  
 _How?  
  
_ How did he read her so well? How is he so good at saying things that slither beneath her skin and lubricate her tongue and shred her already paper thin walls?  
  
She hadn’t planned on letting it go. Hadn’t planned on blurting it out and even if she could blame the alcohol, she’s still got her wits and she’s definitely not intoxicated enough. No, the truth is, a part of her _wanted_ to share. _Craved_ acknowledgement of what she’d worked so hard to achieve.   
  
No one ever had. Her grandfather just waltzed into her life and paid off her debts. He’d never thanked her for her expertise at the estate. Never expressed pride in her pursuit of her passion. It was just a given. This is what she does and that’s that. Like it was just a job. Here’s some dogs, here’s some money. Here’s some doomsday advice you’ll never need.  
  
Her foster parents didn’t care how she did in school. Worried only about the government check they’d receive for housing her. In med she was a competitor for top grades, then just another white coat at graduation. Her colleagues only saw her as an equal. Her patients thanked her for her skill but there was never an acknowledgement of _achievement.  
  
_ “What makes you say that?” It’s a deadpan answer. She’s grown rigid, every muscle tensed and her jaw set. Neither can hide from the obvious truth but at least she has the good sense to _try_ .  
  
“I see the way you look towards the storehouse. You’re headed somewhere and I know what determination looks like,” he pauses to stand up, offers her his hand in assistance, “and honestly? I can’t blame you. I live here for a reason … they’re … a lot. So yes, I know I’m taking you back in the morning. And no, I don’t blame you.”  
  
Her eyes dart between his dark ones and his open hand. Deliberating not just his offer to stand up but his words.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he smiles sadly, “I promise I won’t try to stop you. I just … I want to know you’re okay.”  
  
Her heart hammers in her chest and her breath rushes out of her lungs and…  
  
“So, what do you say? Let’s get some sleep and I’ll take you back to the mainland at first light? I’ll make something up so you don’t have to see them again,” he pauses, thinking, “and I’ll tell Tem you said bye.”  
  
 _How? HOW?  
  
_ Not only does he have a soothing presence and familiar eyes but the uncanny ability to see past every defence and shuttered expression? And then there’s his face and his eyes. So honest. So open and caring. It’s more than she’s received in her life before.  
  
It’s ironic, she thinks with a sigh. Ironic that the first time someone’s shown they _actually_ cared is in this clusterfuck of a post-apocalyptic world. With a saddened tilt of her brow, she gives him a tiny nod.  
  
Ok. Yeah. This is fine. She can do this.  
  
Her hand slips into his large warm one. Where she ignores the spark of heat that travels through her veins and into her heart. Ignores the extra beat it pumps just from this brief touch.  
  
Silently, she follows him up the stairs and into the house.  
  
Hangs his flannel by the door and curls up on the sofa with Romulus on the floor and Remus weighing down her legs.   
  
Bids the hulking mass of sequoia with sad eyes a good night and offers him a tight smile.  
  
That night, she dreams of an island. It’s different now. Small but lush. Safe. With garden beds of veggies and a sloped roof cabin with a wrap around deck. With a warm fire burning and the smell of home hugging her senses.  
  
She dreams of a big man with dark hair, eyes like amber and Atlas’ shoulders. She dreams of a man that now has a face. A face with deep dimples and crooked lips, with a strong nose and a constellation of beauty marks that she could use to map out her universe. That could guide her home.  
  
She dreams of a man named Ben.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we earning that slow burn tag? 
> 
> A couple of points of note here (in case you're wondering and/or are feeling frustrated with the pace):
> 
> 1\. I intend on keeping this realistic. That includes not just their environment, diet and lodging but also their relationship. As much as I want them to hop into bed and do the nasty immediately, that's just not feasible for two people that carry this much trauma. And don't get me wrong, the urge to fuck definitely doesn't die in the apocalypse. The case could be made for it becoming a baser urge in light of their grim existence. That it makes people reckless. But I don't want to use sex-as-a-plot to build a relationship. I want the reverse. To build something healthy _despite_ their situation.
> 
> 2\. I am _very_ tempted to draw out a floor plan of his lil cabin since we'll be spending a good chunk of time there. LMK if that's something you'd be interested in seeing.
> 
> 3\. Despite Rey's constant reminder that she's leaving, I can guarantee you she ain't. We're already unravelling her resolve in small increments. Things like sharing her profession and her wish to express gratitude, finding ways to smile and laugh and _believe_ someone can be trusted. Believe someone could even _care_.She just needs to get there herself. And she will. I promise.
> 
> Anyway ... long story short - repeat after me: You're not going anywhere Rey.
> 
> One more chapter until we wrap up Part I.


End file.
